


Holier Than Thou

by bookofleviathan



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, M/M, Multi, Roommates, Trans Male Character, chaotic queer dumbasses and their issues, every day ned little gets emails, feral teenage hickey, graphic design is eddie hoar's passion, hickey and friends do a heist, improper use of workplace furniture, john irving is having an identity crisis, no beta we cope with our church-related issues through fanfiction like men, veggietales as a coping mechanism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24852238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookofleviathan/pseuds/bookofleviathan
Summary: Sir John runs a Christian-themed summer camp for at-risk teenage boys, though unbeknownst to him, much of his staff are markedly less keen on his strict religious traditions than he might have hoped. Everyone's hiding something, the air is rife with sexual tension, and the ones who aren't head-over-heels are at each other's throats. Also, that one camper might be plotting a murder.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lady Silence | Silna, John Bridgens/Harry Peglar, Lady Jane Franklin/Captain Sir John Franklin (mentioned), Lt George Hodgson/Lt John Irving (almost), Pte William Heather/Sgt Solomon Tozer, Sophia Cracroft/Captain Francis Crozier (past), Thomas Blanky/Captain Francis Crozier (past - friends with benefits), Thomas Hartnell/Lt John Irving, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little, William Pilkington/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 55
Kudos: 69





	1. Mr. Brightside, the Greely Expedition, Tom Hartnell's Class Ring, and the Administrative Building Break Room Couch

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not Christian, but it is about Christianity. A lot of the dynamics here are drawn from my experiences as a queer, trans agnostic who was raised in (and left) the United Methodist Church. This is, in fact, the only part of the story of which I can attest to the accuracy. I am not trying to portray the church in a positive light here (fuck the church, here’s 95 reasons why), but there are a lot of reasons why some people end up working for an organization that doesn’t want them, from necessity to family ties to the hope that you can change it for the better. This is a story about those people, and about reclaiming the church’s utopian ideals for our own and becoming our own salvation, out of choice or out of necessity. This is a love story about losing your faith. This is also a comedy about dead sailors reimagined as counselors at a Christian summer camp. You can’t expect all my decisions to be intelligent and profound.
> 
> Check out the notes at the end for some Fun Historical Facts. Also, be warned: while this is going to be a comedic work with a happy ending and will therefore not get very dark, there are mentions of death in a couple of characters' backstories, including a brief, non-graphic reference to a suicide attempt and a couple of sentences about guilt over having accidentally caused someone's death, and there is discussion of Francis's problematic relationships with his dad and with alcohol. I'm posting this as I write it, so if more warnings crop up, I will post them with future chapters.

Out of all the tremendously shitty experiences Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier had endured in his solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short life up to this point, he had come to the conclusion that Bible camp might just be the one to break him.

It started out, as most things wonderful and terrible do, with a kiss - _how did it end up like this_ , he automatically continued, before silently berating himself for allowing her favorite song to haunt his thoughts. It was pathetic, really. Sophia Cracroft, his ex, who had broken it off with him after several years of dating and two awkward failed marriage proposals on his part, was living rent-free in his head, and he didn’t have the balls to evict her. And just like that, it was no longer that damned song ringing in his ears, but her voice, clear as day: _I don’t think we’re on the same page about where this relationship is going, Francis_ , she said, with a look of pity on her face, _You’re such a good friend, and I really like you, and the sex has been great, but_ \- he cut her off there. He didn’t need to hear it again. She had told him in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want him, and then her aunt had chased him out of her family’s home, and that had been that.

Apparently taking pity on depressed Navy veterans with Irish tempers and alcoholic tendencies ran in the family, however, because Rear Admiral John Franklin, the man under whom Francis had served as a Lieutenant in the Navy before the man had him discharged, who had initially forbidden him from dating the niece he had raised like a daughter, whose high-and-mighty, holier-than-thou attitude grated on Francis like nails on a chalkboard, had decided to do just that. _You can’t be mad at me for ruining your life, no_ , Francis rolled his eyes just thinking about the pompous, now-retired officer, _because I’m going to swoop in and give you a job you’re going to hate at my glorified Christian daycare_.

The utter religiosity of everything the man did, Francis thought, was possibly the most irritating thing about him. _Sir John_ , as his wife had nicknamed him (and had somehow caught on in social circles), had immediately distrusted Francis, who was an atheist descended from a long line of Catholics, and, though he and Sophia were both adults who could make their own decisions, he insisted that Francis attend church services with them if the two were going to pursue a relationship. He’d resented the Franklin family, really - Sophia, whose parents had both died in some kind of accident when she was a child, had been raised by Sir John, her wealthy uncle who had inherited his fortune from some British nobleman, and his wife, whom he had affectionately nicknamed Lady Jane, and who shared his arrogant personality, concern for etiquette, and religious fervor. Though Sophia was undoubtedly a grown-ass woman, she still lived with her aunt and uncle in the family’s estate, a sprawling mansion full of outlandish and frivolous curiosities (including but not limited to a set of china plates recovered from a long-lost shipwreck in the Canadian Arctic, a vast indoor garden complete with an artificial pond inhabited by a gaggle of platypuses imported from Australia, and a pet monkey with a stupid name). As a man of what Franklin would no doubt have referred to with some euphemism like “humble birth,” he generally resented the sheer upper-classèd-ness of it. If he’d known any of this before his initial chance encounter with Sophia at a bar on the military base where he’d been living and she’d been visiting her uncle, he’d never have slept with her, and never have gotten into this mess. Alas, it was too late. Here he was, sitting in his 2005 Subaru Outback in the parking lot of the Erebus National Forest Ranger Headquarters, waiting for a park ranger to pick him up on an ATV and transport him up the mountain (the name of which he couldn’t remember - Mount Queen Mary, maybe? Something ridiculous and royal-sounding) to John Franklin’s latest pet project.

The Expedition Youth Camp, founded in 2014 and owned and operated by the Rear Admiral John and Jane Franklin Foundation, was a faith-based summer camp on what Francis would come to learn was called Mount King William in the highlands of West Virginia, just close enough to Franklin’s mansion in the DC suburbs to be an easy day-trip for the foundation’s CEO, but remote enough that no roads actually led to the camp - it was a tradition for the campers and counselors to hike up to camp at the beginning of the summer, and hike back down at the end. Everyone else was transported by all-terrain vehicle or, in Sir John’s case, private helicopter. The camp’s mission statement was long and obnoxiously biblical, but it boiled down to this: take a bunch of local at-risk teen boys, put them in the woods for three months, make them sing some hymns, et voila, you’ve got a camp full of former holy terrors who are now more holy than terror. _A commendable goal, but through laughable methods_ , Francis thought. _No amount of climbing exercises is going to divest the average teenage boy of his hormonal rage_. Francis hated teenagers. Granted, he hated most people, but especially the ones who couldn’t be made to see reason. He supposed, in that way, Sir John might not have been entirely unlike the population he was hoping to serve.

Nevertheless, Francis was stuck. He hated this whole idea, hated kids, hated camping, hated church, but if he turned down Sir John’s offer, how the hell was he supposed to make a living? He’d been a sailor his whole life up until the Navy sent him home. Sir John, ever the champion of “family values,” had insisted on a hardship discharge when the news came through that Francis’s father had died. Liver cancer. It was a slow and painful death, one that Francis was only moderately ashamed to admit he would have relished had he known about it beforehand. The man had been a drunk and an abusive prick - once, during Francis’s childhood, he’d been outraged at some minor slip-up the boy had made and had refused to speak to him for weeks - and Francis hadn’t spoken to him or his mother since the man kicked him out the week after his high school graduation. With nowhere else to go, he enlisted in the Navy, and had made a respectable career of it, until the father he’d escaped, who must have made his dying wish on a lucky star, had come back to bite him in the ass one final time on his way off this mortal coil, ruining his life just once more, for the fun of it. Maybe that’s why he didn’t like Sir John, he thought, because the man reminded him of his mother: strictly religious and unwilling to bend, bound and determined to do what he thought Francis’s father would want because the church had convinced him that blood was thicker than water. She’d always taken his father’s side. He’d skipped the funeral after he was discharged, and instead went out and drank until he could no longer see the irony in getting drunk, and forgot to call her the next day, and the day after, ad infinitum.

There was no more time for Francis to brood about his daddy issues or his recent stint in rehab, though, because the park ranger had just pulled up, and it was none other than Tom fucking Blanky. Francis couldn’t believe his eyes. He and Tom had once been thick as thieves; they’d done their basic training together and had served together on the cruiser USS _Doterel_ and on the base at Norfolk. They’d only grown apart after Tom had lost his leg and been sent home with a prosthetic and a Purple Heart. Francis climbed out of his car, eager to greet his old friend.

“Frank!” Blanky shouted, walking at him with his odd, stomping gait - he’d never really gotten used to the new leg - and enveloping him in a suffocating bear hug. “Tom,” Francis replied, muffled, into Blanky’s shirt. He finally wriggled free and punched the park ranger in the arm. “You bastard, I haven’t seen you in ages. How’ve you been?”

“Well enough, well enough. Esther’s working at the VA in Harper’s Ferry, and would you believe it, old Sir John’s got me working security detail for that camp he’s running.”

“I’ll believe that if you’ll believe he’s got me running the damn thing.”

“Shut up.”

“No, he does. ‘On-site coordinator,’ that’s the new title.”

“That count as a promotion, then?”

“Can’t be, if Sir John’s the one handing it out.”

God, how Francis had missed his friend. He’d missed having friends at all. He’d missed the concept of friendship in general. The two men shared a hearty laugh and several more physically violent displays of brotherly affection before climbing atop the ATV and making for the camp. _Maybe this didn't have to be all bad_ , he thought, briefly, before laughing at himself for falling into that trap. Francis couldn't remember who said that you go to heaven for the climate and hell for the company, but it rang true: he might be in good company, but this was going to be hell.

-

If there was one thing in the world that James Fitzjames couldn’t stand, it was a pessimist, and it was becoming clearer by the minute that he was about to have to share a cabin with one for the rest of the summer.

It was a pity, really, for that ruggedly handsome face to be marred by the exact sort of misery that James was sure would inevitably leach into every interaction he had with the man. He hated people like that, he really did, people who couldn’t see the good in things. James was the sort to turn every scar into a story, because ultimately, life is only as good as you believe it is, right? He had spent his entire life believing in a good life for himself; against all odds, he’d graduated college, gone back for a master’s in public administration, and launched a career in the nonprofit sector. He was truly passionate about it; he cared deeply for the people he wanted to help, and wanted the work he did to really mean something. There was another part of him, though, one he tried not to think about too much, that loved nonprofit work for a more selfish reason: he secretly craved the illustrious, respectable life of a philanthropist. Above all else, James Fitzjames wanted to be admired- no, more than that, he wanted to be _worthy of admiration_ , and he had trouble tolerating anyone who would settle for less.

So naturally, when “Sir” John Franklin had sat him down in his office and introduced the grouchy, redheaded, red-faced man in the chair next to him as not only his new bunkmate but his new boss, James had been a bit taken aback.

After the introduction was done, Francis Crozier stood, nodded curtly, thanked Sir John for his time, and left the room, eyes downcast. James rolled his own eyes in response and, once he could be reasonably sure Francis was out of earshot, spoke his mind.

“Sir, with all due respect, why him?

“What on earth do you mean, James?”

“He seems a little… nihilistic to be managing this kind of operation, doesn’t he?”

“James, I served as Lieutenant Crozier’s commanding officer in the Navy. He may be, shall we say, in need of some spiritual guidance, but I’ve seen his work ethic. He’s up to the job. And he’s your commanding officer now,” Sir John lectured, leaning forward and jabbing James with the ballpoint pen he’d been twiddling. “You should cherish that man.”

“Right, sir,” James mumbled and heaved himself out of Sir John’s uncomfortable visitor’s chair. “I’d better be off, then. I need to go speak with Wall and Diggle about their plans for the campers’ first mess tomorrow night.”

“Excellent,” Sir John responded. “While you’re at it, check with Weekes and see if he’s finished the repairs to the climbing wall yet. I want everything to be in tip-top shape for when the youngsters arrive tomorrow.”

“Will do, sir,” James said, slipping out of Sir John’s office and down the hallway of the administrative building, stopping only to look down at his crisp, white button-up shirt and scoff impatiently at the pock mark of blue ink left there by his boss’s pen.

-

Once his office door fell shut after James, his trusted personnel manager, left to go check on the cooks and the contractor, John Franklin stretched, sighed, and settled back into his desk chair. This was truly the most exciting part of the year. This, the summer of 2019, marked five years since he’d first founded the Expedition Youth Camp, and the joy he felt at the prospect of leading a new group of young people to Christ was just as strong as it had been that first summer. He shook his computer mouse to bring the screen to life so he could check his messages - there was no cell service on Mount King William, and while the satellite-based internet was shoddy and slow at best, it was all that was available, and he was looking forward to letting his wife know that everything was going well.

John had been married to his wife, the Lady Jane, as he called her reverently, for going on 45 years. He was more grateful than she’d ever know that she’d stuck around for so long; she’d married him when he was a younger, poorer man, back before that miserly great-uncle from across the pond died, revealing to him a hitherto-unknown relation to Alfred, Lord Tennyson and, unexpectedly, quite a large share in the family fortune. She had stayed faithful when he’d joined the Navy not long after their wedding, out of a sense of patriotic duty, and been shipped off to Vietnam. She had dutifully and happily followed him wherever his assignments took him, acquiring a wealth of nautical artifacts and souvenirs along the way, as well as a menagerie of exotic pets. She’d bought a capuchin monkey off a street vendor in Malaysia, brought a massive Newfoundland dog back from northern Canada, and had somehow managed to smuggle a mated pair of platypuses out of Tasmania, all of which inhabited the lavish indoor garden she kept at their estate in Arlington.

He opened his email, and as he’d expected, she’d sent a missive which laid out the packing of her bags in exhaustive detail. While John was away, she would be spending some time in London, in talks with the British Museum regarding the purchase of some of her collection: artifacts from an expedition that had been lost in the search for the Northwest Passage, a couple of British Royal Navy uniforms, circa War of 1812, in shockingly good condition, and what had been appraised and, though seemingly impossible, determined to be an actual cannon from the HMS _Bellerophon_ , fired at the Battle of Trafalgar (though he had to admit, he had no idea where or how she had acquired it).

She’d even attached a picture she’d taken on her phone of the monkey, Jacko, attempting to stow away in her favorite suitcase. John laughed, and his chest filled with a familiar warmth. He was so proud and so fond of his Lady Jane. He’d wanted to go with her to London once he’d appointed someone to the position of on-site coordinator for the camp, but the Lord had other plans; this was made apparent when He dropped Lieutenant Francis Crozier onto John’s doorstep. He had tried with all his might to make Francis understand that he was not good enough for Sophia without coming out and saying it to his face, but it had taken two rejected marriage proposals and an unfortunately-overheard dinner table conversation for him to take the hint. He really was awfully sorry for that, and for the whole ordeal with the hardship discharge and the heated 3-AM argument and the police report, but he did not regret the opportunity to save the man’s soul. He wasn’t sure that he trusted Francis enough to run the camp on his own yet, but what he had told James was true - the man had an impeccable work ethic - and, after praying on it, he knew in his heart that the job would help Francis turn over a new leaf (and hopefully one that wasn’t attached to the Franklin family tree).

-

Cornelius Hickey hadn’t originally intended to commit fraud and identity theft, honest, but let’s face it: his parents hadn’t really given him much choice when they saddled him with a name like _Cornelius_ , had they? And surely his environment had had something to do with it. It’s rough growing up in a West Virginia trailer park, and learning how to pick pockets from that dealer from up the street - Morfin, or Orrin, or something like that - was really just a matter of survival. And if he’d used his newfound survival skills to, say, manufacture a fake ID, swipe Principal Parry’s credit card, hotwire his neighbor Mrs. Jopson’s car, and go on a two-week bender a couple of states over, well, what was the harm in having a little fun? He hadn’t meant anything by it. He was just… making the best of his bad situation. It was a good thing Sir John had taken pity on him, had seen the potential in him. He was seventeen, and there had been talk of having him tried as an adult. Luckily, the rich Bible-thumper who owned that summer camp up in the hills had turned up and talked the judge into letting him off with a mandated stay at the Expedition Youth Camp and a shitload of community service. Normally, just the thought of anything that could remotely be described as “Bible camp” might have made him spontaneously combust, but now, packing his bags on the eve of his first day at camp, he was surprisingly unconcerned. He’d made a good impression on the man in charge. It wouldn’t take much from there to get what he wanted.

-

Satellite internet, with its limited bandwidth, low speeds, and tendency to go out entirely if there was a single cloud in the sky, was often worse than no internet at all, but there was one blessed upside to it: it gave Ned Little an excuse to ignore his emails. Between his full-time enrollment as a grad student at the state university in Morgantown (through online summer classes, of course), his teaching assistant position (from which he was supposed to be on break, but his supervising professor, who had been emailing him approximately three times a day asking for help with his computer, was apparently unaware of this), and his summer job at the Expedition Youth Camp (which, in addition to work-related communications, sent out a twice-daily newsletter decked out in 24-point bright red Comic Sans and clipart graphics with distorted aspect ratios), he was lucky to get through a single day without 50 new unread items waiting for him by dinnertime. Several of the other counselors had become distraught upon realizing that their phones got no reception up here, but not Ned. He was relieved, at first. Perhaps he’d finally get the chance to get some work done on his thesis, or read any one of the numerous explorers’ memoirs he’d downloaded to his Kindle, or even, unlikely as it was, get a decent night’s sleep.

His hopes were dashed almost immediately upon swinging open the door of his assigned cabin and walking right in on the most gorgeous guy he’d ever seen, dripping wet and clad only in a conveniently-placed towel.

He’d have apologized and stepped back outside like a normal person, but before he even had time to think about that, he made an embarrassing squeaking sound and promptly fainted, like one of those goats from the viral videos.

When he came to, he was propped up against the wall of the cabin, and the beautiful boy, still wrapped in his towel, was pressing a cold cloth to his forehead. He startled again, but the boy grabbed Ned’s shoulder with his free hand to steady him. Ned hoped he couldn’t feel him shaking.

“I’m so sorry I scared you,” said the boy, with a look not entirely unlike fear in his eyes. “I should have waited for you to get here before bringing my stuff in, but the ATV hit a mud puddle on the way up here, and I really needed a shower-“

“It’s okay,” Ned said, though he wasn’t sure which one of them he was trying to reassure, as both were staring at each other like deer trying to figure out which one was the oncoming car. “I’m Edward Little. I’m a camp counselor- your roommate, I think. You can call me Ned. Or Ed. Or Edward. Whatever’s easiest.” Jesus. Was he really this pathetic?

“Ned is fine,” the young man smiled. “I’m Thomas Jopson. You, uh, can call me Thomas.” _Oh no_ , Ned thought, _how is his_ name _hot?_ “I’m an intern. I’ll be working in the administrative building.” Ned barely heard this, as he was too busy internally reflecting on the sheer unfairness of Thomas’s glacier blue eyes. They sat for a moment, taking each other in, before Thomas blushed and jumped up, running off to the bathroom. “God, I am _so_ sorry,” he shouted over the muffled sounds of luggage being rifled through in the other room. He emerged moments later, fully-clothed. “I, um, forgot that I was-“

“It’s fine,” Ned croaked, his distress growing in urgency as he began to realize that Thomas somehow looked even _more_ indecent in the lavender polo and khakis he’d thrown on. God, who had ever been attracted to fucking _khakis?_ There was only one thing Ned could do here, the one thing he was good at: talking about his studies in an effort to fight awkwardness with awkwardness. “So, Thomas,” he said, after a long pause, “what do you do? Are you a student?”

“I am, yeah,” he replied, sitting down at the end of the bed he’d claimed, folding one of his legs and pulling a sock onto his foot. “I study hospitality and service industry management at Carnegie Mellon. I grew up near here, and I decided to come back here to do my internship for my master’s degree. You?”

“I’m a graduate student, too,” he said. _Was that too eager? Do I seem desperate?_ “I study history at the University of West Virginia.” Thomas lit up. “Oh, I love history! What kind of research do you do?”

An invitation to ramble on about his research interests was both exactly what Ned Little needed and the thing that was most likely to end any chance he might have had at a relationship with the boy on the bed across from his. He stumbled headfirst into the trap. “I study maritime history. My thesis is on the Greely expedition, which-“

“Oh, I know about that!” Ned couldn’t tell whether or not his jaw had dropped. “I used to read all the stuff about the Arctic I could get my hands on when I was a kid. Didn’t have much else to do,” Thomas grinned. “That’s the one with the Civil War veteran and the cannibalism, right?”

If Saint Peter himself had popped out from behind a curtain then and there and told Ned he’d actually hit his head and died when he fainted, and that, despite his shortcomings, he’d somehow made it into heaven, he wouldn’t have been surprised in the least. Here he was, surrounded by the natural beauty of the Appalachian mountains, not a single email to check, in a cabin with a beautiful boy who shared his interest in polar exploration. He couldn’t bring himself to look a gift horse in the mouth and question how he’d gotten this lucky.

This might be the best summer of his life.

-

Thomas Jopson’s cabin-mate was weird, but in an endearing way. He was a total nerd, his sideburns were unruly and about a century out of fashion, and he had actually _fainted_ when he walked in on Thomas getting dressed after his shower. Ned Little, bless him, was completely pathetic, and Thomas was determined to get into his pants before the summer was over. There would be plenty of time for plotting his attempt at seduction later (though he suspected it wouldn’t take much effort, based on the amount of staring Ned had been pretending he wasn’t doing all afternoon). For now, it was time for a mandatory employee meeting in the mess hall.

Walking into the mess hall, he recognized the faces of several people to whom he’d been introduced in the few hours he’d been at Expedition Youth Camp. There was Rear Admiral Franklin at the head of the great table, who had insisted on being called by the nickname _Sir John_ for some reason. To his left was Mr. Fitzjames, whose job was to supervise and manage the camp counselors, and who was so well-groomed as to look out of place at a table otherwise occupied by college students, veterans, and career outdoorsmen. To Sir John’s right was a man to whom Thomas hadn’t yet spoken, but who he’d been told was his boss, Mr. Crozier. Lieutenant Crozier? Sir John seemed inexplicably keen on addressing him by his military rank. He also recognized the camp physician, Harry Goodsir, and his wife, Silna, an Inuk woman from Canada who taught anthropology at the University of West Virginia and who was never seen without her massive, fluffy Great Pyrenees dog, as well as a couple of others - Solomon Tozer, the archery instructor; George Hodgson, the music instructor; and his own roommate, Ned Little, who gave Thomas a smile and waved him over to sit next to him. Thomas carried his tray of odd-looking food over to the table and took a seat.

He turned to Ned, prodding at the brown lump on his plate with his fork. Quietly, so as not to offend anyone, he asked his new friend, “What do you think this is supposed to be?”

“Veal cutlet with tomato, according to Chef Diggle,” Ned replied, with a look of restrained disgust on his face. “Looks like dog food, though.”

“I don’t think you’re the only one who sees the resemblance,” Thomas said, nodding toward Silna, who was discreetly sliding her veal cutlet onto the floor for her dog to eat. The two students shared a subtle laugh at this. “Did- did he cook this himself?” _If so, he has no right to call himself a chef_ , Thomas thought, but would never have said out loud. He'd been raised to be polite, and as bad as the food was, he wasn't about to stoop to _rudeness_. The young man sitting across from them, with a haircut-and-beard combo straight out of the 1970s and a class ring on a chain around his neck, interjected. “It’s from a can,” he said, “most of the food here is. Easier to ship and store than fresh stuff, and Sir John figures the kids won’t notice the difference. Reverend John Irving, by the way.” He extended a hand for Thomas to shake, then shook Ned’s, as well. “Officially, I’m here as a rock climbing instructor, but I teach painting classes and Bible study, as well. I helped Chef Wall unload the supply crates earlier. They ordered from a new supplier this year, some generic brand called Goldner’s. Something about cutting costs.” He stopped to shovel a mouthful of it into his face. “Iss awright,” he continued with his mouth full, before swallowing the whole thing half-chewed in an unflattering gulp. “I’ve had better, but I’m grateful for what the Lord provides me.” Thomas didn’t bother to tell him that the Lord had provided him with a chunk of tomato stuck in his mustache. Sir John stood and clinked his fork against his glass to get the room’s attention.

“Everyone,” he called out in his best sermon voice after the companionable chatter had died down. “Thank you for coming to our first staff meeting for the 2019 season. We are grateful to have all of you on staff here at Expedition Youth Camp in what will be our fifth year of operation. In a moment, I will introduce our new and returning staff so that you may all get to know one another, but first, if you will bow your heads, I would like to lead us in reciting the Lord’s Prayer.”

 _Our father, who art in heaven_ … Thomas peeked up, careful not to move his head enough to arouse suspicion. _Hallowed be thy name_. Ever since he was a kid being made to sit through three-hour-long Southern Baptist services, he’d found comfort in opening his eyes during these moments, to see who else wasn’t following along. As a gay man who had grown up in the Bible Belt, Thomas had learned at an early age that, in any given situation (but especially in his new, overtly-religious workplace), he needed to know who he could trust. _Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven_. He looked around, inconspicuously as he could, and committed to memory those whose eyes were open, who weren’t joining in, or were otherwise preoccupied. Some, he’d expected - Dr. Goodsir, for instance, had taught Thomas’s undergraduate Intro to Anthropology class, and she’d been very open about how proud she was to carry the traditional beliefs of her people. It made some of his classmates uncomfortable - after all, this was West Virginia - but Thomas had loved hearing her stories about her childhood in Gjøa Haven, Nunavut, and she quickly became his favorite professor. Some of the others, however, took Thomas by surprise. _Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us of our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us_. Francis Crozier, Sir John’s second-in-command, had barely bowed his head at all, and was looking around warily. James Fitzjames, the personnel manager, had bowed his head but hadn’t closed his eyes, and was rubbing at a stain on his shirt. And there were more. _And lead us not unto temptation, but deliver us from evil…_ Tozer and the stocky, prematurely-balding man sitting next to him. The blond boy at the other end of the table who’d been making eyes at Reverend Irving all evening. The older man with the long, gray hair and the man with the beard who had been sitting too close to him to be a mere acquaintance. _For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever._ Ned fucking Little. _Amen._

_-_

Harry Goodsir raised his head in time with the rest of the room, and gave his wife a knowing glance. Religious differences might be a strain on many relationships, but Harry had always found joy in navigating these waters with Silna. She’d been accepting of his Christian faith, though firm in her boundaries - she would not go to church services (though she would, on occasions such as this, accompany him into Christian spaces, if invited), would not partake in prayer or other forms of worship, and would not participate in Christian traditions. He was more than okay with this. He knew that her spiritual beliefs were important to her, that they empowered her to connect with her Netsilik Inuit heritage, and that she was proud of her faith. He wouldn’t exchange that for anything in the world. He would never push her outside her comfort zone, but he reveled in any opportunity to learn more about her culture. She had been reluctant to entertain the idea of a relationship with him at first, out of worry that he would try to push his beliefs on her. He’d had a lot of learning to do, and frankly still had a lot of privilege and prejudices he was learning to recognize and move past. She was patient with him, and he was open-minded and willing to accept criticism. She’d made him a better person, and he loved her for that, and for everything else, too.

It was then that he realized that he’d completely zoned out and missed a couple of minutes of Sir John’s speech. He blinked a few times to clear his head, slid an arm over and took Silna’s hand in his, and tried his best to listen. Sir John sat down, and the man next to James Fitzjames, who had long hair and graying sideburns and was wearing a tie-dyed tee shirt and cargo shorts, stood up to speak. “What’s up, guys,” the man said. Harry could practically hear in his voice the socks-and-sandals combination that was no doubt hidden under the table. “I’m Reverend Le Vesconte, but you can call me Dundy.” Silna shot him a look, as if to say _a ridiculous nickname for a ridiculous man_. Harry nodded in agreement. “Mrs. Goodsir!” Dundy exclaimed, noticing that Silna’s attention was flagging. “Love your haircut. It is, as the kids would say, _on_ _fleek_.” The room fell silent for a moment that felt more like a week, with Silna staring straight through him, before saying, in a calm, measured tone, “ _Doctor_ Goodsir.” Harry’s eyes were drawn to the two kids, probably college students, who sat across from Reverend Irving. The one with the straight hair and piercing blue eyes clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a fit of laughter and leaned into the one next to him, with the curls and the outdated facial hair, whose face had the vacant, incredulous expression of someone looking into an invisible camera as though they were on _The Office_.

After another tense pause, Dundy cleared his throat and looked away, embarrassed. “Erm. Yes. Doctor. Anyway,” he looked up and brightened his tone a bit, hoping to distract from what had just transpired, “I’m the youth pastor at First Methodist, and I’m also the head camp counselor this season.” A Methodist youth pastor. That explained everything. “I’m looking forward to seeing what the Lord has in store for us this summer. Would the rest of our counselors go ahead and stand up so you can introduce yourselves?”

-

Tom Hartnell sat back down. As he’d been sitting at the very end of the table, he’d been the last camp counselor to introduce himself, so of course, by that point, it was dark out and the mosquitoes were starting to get in and people were starting to yawn. Still, he thought his speech had been rousing enough. Sir John clapped, anyway. Tom had been an early success story for the camp, after all. He’d been one of the first group, in 2014, to stay at Expedition Youth Camp. His brother had died a year earlier - osteosarcoma - and he’d fallen into a deep depression and become involved with some unsavory characters. Then, near the end of his senior year of high school, he’d gotten into a fistfight with this kid, Johnny Torrington, who would turn out to have had an undiagnosed brain aneurysm. What happened to Johnny hadn’t been Tom’s fault - the family, though grieving, had been kind enough to forgive him and declined to press charges - but he wasn’t sure he could go on living knowing he’d killed that kid, even accidentally. After his attempt on his own life, he’d been checked into an inpatient facility, where he’d been given intensive therapy, a prescription for a strong dose of Prozac, and a brochure for some rehabilitative summer camp up in the mountains, complete with a scholarship application.

It had turned his life around. Heck, it was the first time in a long time that he felt like his life was worth living. Since then, he’d volunteered as a camp counselor every summer, so he could share that with kids like him, and had even been invited by Sir John to speak in front of crowds in Washington, Philly, and Baltimore, and in front of school assemblies and church youth groups across the mid-Atlantic. He loved every second of it, so much that, with Sir John’s blessing, he’d decided to go to seminary and become a pastor.

It was there that he’d met John Irving.

 _Reverend Irving, now_ , he reminded himself. When he’d walked into the mess hall and seen Irving there, smiling and talking with his mouth full to the guys sitting across from him, he’d been tempted to turn around, walk out of the mess hall, hike back down the mountain and into town, and catch a Greyhound bus to the other side of the country. He’d already signed his employment contract for the summer, though, so he would have to settle for the last seat at the very end of the table on the same side as Irving, in the hopes that the pastor wouldn’t spot him.

It had been almost a year since he’d seen John Irving last. They’d been at a weekend retreat at Lake Junaluska down in North Carolina, and, true to form, Tom had had a couple too many craft beers at the youth leaders’ get-together. On his way back to the hotel, he’d run into Irving, a student then, who had been with a special breakout group and, judging from his flushed face and clumsy gait, had also had a little drink. Irving had smiled that damn - _darn_ , Tom corrected himself, _you’re trying to quit swearing, remember?_ \- smile, and Tom made some joke about _getting into the communion wine_ and then Irving told him _actually, Methodists invented grape juice so we didn’t have to serve wine at communion_ and then Tom woke up in a hotel room he didn’t recognize with the other man snuggled up to him. He panicked, quickly thanked God that the man appeared to be a heavy sleeper, slipped out of bed, threw his clothes on, ran out of the room and back to his own, frantically packed his things, told the leader of the group he’d come with that he had a family emergency, drove himself home at an average of 10 miles per hour over the speed limit, stress-ate an entire Little Caesar’s pizza _and_ a whole order of Crazy Bread, drank an entire box of Sleepytime Tea, and binge-watched his whole collection of VeggieTales VHS tapes. It had been a _Lyle the Kindly Viking_ kind of day. He didn’t even realize until he went to bed, around 5:30 the following morning, that he’d left his class ring on Irving’s nightstand.

He’d been trying to forget the incident and quell the impending identity crisis for a year now. After the meeting let out, he ducked into the men’s room, counting his breaths the way his therapist had taught him. It would be alright. Irving had probably been too tired to pay enough attention to recognize him. Now, he just needed to wait here until he was sure Irving had left the mess hall so that he wouldn’t bump into him, then sneak across to the administrative building and pick up the key to his assigned cabin.

 _I can do this_ , he reassured himself, peering out of the bathroom door. Irving was nowhere in sight.

 _I can do this._ He crept out of the bathroom and to the mess hall’s entrance.

 _I can do this._ He looked both ways to check for Irving, then bolted across the gravel path to the administrative building.

 _I can do this._ He stepped inside, greeted Henry, the receptionist, and made for the sign-in sheet on his desk.

-

“Great to see you again, Tom. Let me get your key. Looks like you’re in Cabin 14, with a… John Irving.” Henry Peglar, Expedition Youth Camp receptionist, turned around and held out the key, but Tom didn’t take it, opting instead to maintain a thousand-yard stare straight into Henry’s soul. Tom had always been a nervous one. Confused but patient, Henry stepped out from behind his desk, grabbed Tom’s hand, put the key in it, and closed his fingers around it. “I can’t do this,” Tom breathed, beginning to work himself into a panic. “I. Cannot. Fucking. Sorry, flipping. Do. This.”

Henry opened his mouth to ask Tom what the matter was, but Tom interrupted him. “Please let me stay in your cabin. I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll-“

“Whoa there, cowboy,” Henry said, throwing a companionable arm around Tom’s shoulder. “Let’s go sit down and have a nice cup of tea and you can tell me all about it, hmm?” Tom sniffled and nodded, and Henry led him to the employee break room down the hall.

-

At the sound of the break room door opening, John Bridgens looked up from his well-worn copy of _Moby-Dick_ to see Henry practically carrying a trembling Tom Hartnell. Henry gave John a knowing look. “He’s having one of his moments.” John sat his book down on the scratched coffee table and stood up to make room on the ugly secondhand floral sofa, the most comfortable place in the room to sit. Henry led Tom to the sofa and draped a plaid fleece blanket over his shoulders. John walked over to the kitchenette, threw a teabag into a mug, filled it with water, and popped it in the microwave. He was reasonably sure that the only reason Sleepytime Tea was Tom's favorite was because he thought the bear in pajamas on the box was cute. Still, it calmed the boy down, and John had never met anyone who needed calming down as much as Tom. He hit the start button on the microwave and made his way back to the sitting area, where Henry was sitting on the couch with Tom, rubbing a small circle into his shoulder with his thumb. John pulled a folding chair up next to Henry and sat down. “You can tell us what happened whenever you feel like it,” Henry said in a soothing voice.

Henry and John had known Tom Hartnell, well, as long as they’d been together, really. Both of them had started working at the camp the year it had opened. Before that, John had been a custodian at the local library, which had suited him and his love of books, until his job fell victim to county-level budget cuts. Desperate for work, he figured he passed for straight well enough to work at the church camp until the end of the summer, when he could take a job with the school system.

That is, until he showed up for his first day as the camp janitor and was greeted by Henry Peglar, for whom he’d instantly fallen. Henry was a little young for his usual type, granted (John was well into his fifties, and Henry was in his early thirties), but he was too charming for his own good. He was also probably straight. John made it a point to stay away from him. He knew from experience that getting too attached to straight men never ended well. That lasted for all of two weeks, before one evening, not unlike this one, Henry sauntered into the break room, sat down next to John, and asked what he was reading. It was Whitman. _Leaves of Grass_. “I’ve always wanted to get into poetry,” Henry had said, wistfully, “but my dyslexia makes it hard for me to figure out the rhythm of it. Maybe you could show me?”

It had been sheer, cruel coincidence that he’d been in the middle of _Calamus_ when Henry’d walked in. He’d nervously handed the book over to Henry, who began reading aloud from _Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand_. Henry read slowly, taking the time to sound out words, and stumbling a bit, but with a dedication and perseverance that would have made John blush had he not already been beet-red from the words Henry was reading. “I give you fair warning before- before you attempt me further,” he recited, “I- I am not what you supposed, but far different.” Henry kept reading, but John was too distracted by the way he traced along the lines with his fingers to pay attention, until he hit another stumbling block.

“…appro- approach, un-unawares-“ he stuttered, becoming flustered. Without thinking, John grabbed the hand with which he’d been tracking his place, and moved it to the next line, reading to him. “Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea or some quiet island,” he read, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you, with the comrade’s long-dwelling kiss or the new husband’s kiss, for I am the new husband and I am the comrade.” Henry turned his hand over and grasped John’s, running a thumb over his knuckles. They simultaneously turned to look at one another. When had they moved this close together? Both of them were flushed scarlet, eyes flicking from hands to mouths to eyes, until Henry practically threw himself onto John, kissing him with a fervor that John had not _at all_ expected.

They’d been together since that night, a five-year partnership forged in the fires of workplace secrecy and finding new uses for the break room couch after-hours.

“Wait, you _slept_ with Reverend Irving?” Henry said, incredulously, shaking John from the warmth of his flashback. “You slept with _Reverend Irving_?” John echoed. Tom buried his head in his hands. “It was one night,” Tom groaned, “a year ago, and I haven’t spoken to him since, and now he’s my bunkmate for the whole summer.”

Oh. This _was_ bad.

“Surely he can stay in our cabin for tonight, can’t he?” John asked. Tom had known about their relationship for three years, ever since another night not unlike this one, when he’d entered the break room and accidentally walked in on what, if anyone asked, he’d say was a reading lesson. He’d been surprisingly accepting and had more than earned the couple’s friendship and trust. “We’re only using the one bed.”

Henry sighed, exasperated. “One night. I love you to death, Tom, but you’ve got one night to get your shit together and figure out how to approach Irving before I talk to him _for_ you.” Despite the threat, Tom breathed a sigh of relief and thanked Henry profusely, just as the microwave beeped, indicating that the tea was ready. John had gone back over to the kitchenette to fetch it, when Tom elbowed Henry and said, wiggling an eyebrow, “And hey, you two can still have privacy. You’ve always got the break room couch.”

Henry gave a choking sort of laugh, and John dropped the mug he was holding, which shattered, soaking his shoes with Sleepytime Tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is set in the US. Is church camp a thing in other countries? You can still read their dialogue in their original accents. That’s how I wrote it, because everything is made up and the accents don’t matter. I have obviously taken some creative liberties with everyone’s backstories here, including characters' ages.
> 
> Francis never made it past Lieutenant, because (I think) the US Navy works differently than the British one, and I wanted to convey that he was never going to be given a command in the first place. A hardship discharge would have been completely unnecessary, but Franklin wanted rid of him, and this way, he could pretend he was doing it for Francis’s sake, because these boys have a lot of issues to work through. Someone, please get them into therapy, or at least get Francis a father figure to have a healthy relationship with.
> 
> I don’t know the particulars involved in importing and keeping platypuses (platypi? platypeople?), but I’ll be damned if I don’t find any excuse possible to throw in a platypus pond reference. That did, in fact, happen in this universe. Make of that what you will.
> 
> Fun game: See if you can spot the subtle House, MD reference in this chapter.
> 
> Goodsir just wants to be a good ally, especially because he’s currently starring in a fanfiction written by a white person. If you've spotted any issues with the depiction of Silna in this story, he recommends you alert the author so that the issues can be corrected, because at this Bible camp, we respect indigenous people.
> 
> The World Methodist Council is headquartered in Lake Junaluska, North Carolina, which features a convention center where church conferences are held. Oh, how the Methodists love their conferences. Thomas Bramwell Welch, a Methodist and temperance enthusiast, did, in fact, invent grape juice as we know it as an alcohol-free substitute for communion wine. It’s also common practice in the UMC for the Body of Christ to be represented by King’s Hawaiian bread. I’m not making this up.
> 
> Insert obligatory “Fuck the British Museum” here.


	2. Bees, a 2005 Subaru Outback, a Spare EpiPen, and an Airborne Chunk of Potato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first day of camp. Hickey is already Winning Friends and Influencing People. Meanwhile, James can't figure out why Francis is giving him the cold shoulder, John Irving is on the verge of an identity crisis, Eddie Hoar gets the chance to use his graphic design skills, three people get sent to the emergency room, and Thomas Jopson valiantly saves Ned Little from some bees. It's only 3:00 in the afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter was done quicker than I expected! I hope you enjoy it. Chapter 3 is in the works, and should be up soon. Thanks for the kind comments. I've never seriously written fanfiction before this, so I'm glad it's not as terrible as I was afraid it would be.

John Irving had a nasty habit of accidentally destroying alarm clocks.

It wasn’t his fault, really. He’d always been a heavy sleeper. He’d been known to sleep through alarms, no matter how loud or close by, for up to thirty minutes, to the irritation of anyone living with him. This had the unfortunate side effect of making him chronically late, so he’d had to start setting multiple alarms to go off every five minutes, starting an hour before he actually needed to get up. People seemed to find this even more annoying. He was pretty sure that’s why his last next-door neighbors had moved out of their apartment. When the alarm roused him enough to do something about it, he would blindly paw at the nightstand, sometimes with disastrous consequences. He’d hit a few snooze buttons hard enough to crack the plastic of the clocks’ casings, and he’d once knocked over a glass of water onto the clock and nearly electrocuted himself. He’d taken to keeping his alarm clock across the room from his bed after that.

He thanked God when he woke up that he didn’t have to worry about his roommate being angry about the alarms, because his roommate hadn’t shown up last night. What was his name, again? Tom Hartnell. That name sounded awfully familiar, but Irving couldn’t place where he’d heard it before.

He got up, stretched, said a quick morning prayer, showered, and got dressed, remembering to put the ring around his neck. He’d found the class ring in a North Carolina hotel room last year. It was a man’s ring, with an aquamarine stone, and inscribed on the outside with the name _Thomas_ and _Class of 2015_ , and the initials TH inscribed on the inside. He figured the person who’d stayed in the room before him had left it on the nightstand when he checked out.

He hoped that was the case, because it would mean that it didn’t have anything to do with the night he couldn’t remember.

He’d been out with some of the other seminary students from the conference that evening. They’d gone to Chili’s. He felt like having a bit of fun, so he’d ordered their $5 monthly special, the 1800® Stay-Cay ‘Rita™. It had been just pink and fruity enough for him to forget how bad he was at holding his liquor. Other than that, he remembered doing three things that night: getting into a heated argument with one of the other students about whether or not Jesus would have been offended by zombie movies, stumbling out into the Chili’s parking lot, and waking up back in his hotel room.

He hadn’t seen the ring before that, but he must have just missed it. Only the Lord was perfect, and John Irving was definitely human, but he was not the sort to bed strangers. Still, for reasons he’d have to get uncomfortably familiar with himself to understand, he wore the ring on a necklace, in case he ran into its owner, so he could give it back. It was unlikely, granted, but it _felt_ right, and John wasn’t about to question it, lest he find himself forced to question other things.

One thing was certain, though. John Irving hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since that night.

-

The new doctor, Tom Blanky thought, was a lot like a puppy, in that he was as endearing as he was annoying.

That is to say, both, simultaneously, to a nauseating degree.

It probably wasn’t Goodsir’s fault. Blanky had been having a hell of a week, and it was only Tuesday. He’d been asked to move from his usual quarters at the Rangers’ station up the mountain to the camp, which would have been fine, except that it’s extremely difficult to move a whole season’s worth of belongings and supplies up a winding dirt path to a mountaintop on a fucking four-wheeler. He’d lost a suitcase on a hairpin turn and had had to trek back to get it, only to discover that a couple of black bear cubs had gotten into it and were playing tug-of-war with a sweater Esther had knitted him. Between shuttling his things and the crates of cans of precooked meat entrees which looked, if he was being honest, like the ingredients list could reasonably have read _Mostly circus animals, some filler_ , he’d only had time to unpack a single item: his lucky mug, the one with the fish on it that the kids had gotten him for Fathers’ Day last year. He’d had the audacity to leave it in the break room overnight, and by the morning, some bastard had already smashed the damn thing.

Consequently, on top of all of this, Blanky hadn’t had his coffee yet that morning, and he was due for a long day of what Sir John had called “making sure the boys get up the mountain safe and sound.” He’d have gone with “follow a bunch of punk-ass kids up a mountain at five miles a fucking hour to make sure they don’t go the way of Esther’s sweater,” but complaining wouldn’t change anything.

He wished Frank would learn that. As good as it was to have his old friend around, the man was driving him up the wall with his incessant sulking. Things had been rough, but Frank needed to come off it. Sure, Sophia had dumped him, but it wasn’t the end of the world, was it? Blanky had never liked Sophia, anyway - she knew _far_ too much about the mating habits of the duck-billed platypus for his tastes. What Frank needed, Blanky determined, was a good rebound shag. Take his mind off things. In the past, Blanky might have taken it upon himself (and occasionally had), but he was a happily married man these days, and besides, he had his fingers crossed for Frank to hit it off with his pretty-boy roommate.

“Oh, look at this!” Goodsir, who had been walking with Blanky to the shed where the ATV was kept, ran to a nearby tree, and came back with a big-ass bug. “It’s a cecropia moth,” the doctor explained, delicately stroking the thing with a finger. “Their larvae live in maple trees. Did you know they’re the largest moth native to this continent?”

“No, I didn’t know that,” Blanky said, flatly. “I’m going to go on ahead and get the ATV started.”

“Oh, I’ll come with you. I should probably put this little…” Goodsir trailed off, inspecting the thing’s antennae, “Girl. I should probably put this little girl somewhere safe.”

Blanky sighed. The two continued walking to the shed, Goodsir excitedly telling Blanky about how adult cecropia moths don’t have any mouthparts, and Blanky secretly wishing the same could be said of the good doctor. Harry Goodsir was well-intentioned, and he seemed like a good enough man, but the chances of Blanky having to endure the man skipping off through the forest and singing with the birds like Snow fucking White were greater than zero, and he was not in a Disney mood today.

-

James congregated with the rest of the staff outside on the main path through the camp, between the administrative building and the mess hall. This was it. The season was about to officially begin.

In front of the administrative building, Sir John stood atop an overturned milk crate, getting ready to give some grand address. James stood at attention nearby, next to the receptionist and the janitor, who kept whispering and giggling between themselves. Francis was off in the distance, talking to the park ranger on the ATV. After the incident on the trail last summer, where that kid - his name was Braine, or something like that - had fallen and broken his leg and had to be carried back to camp, Graham Gore, the hike leader, had insisted on bringing the doctor and the ATV this year. It was probably a good plan.

Sir John gave a whistle, then, and James turned and pretended to pay attention to what he was saying. It was something about _providence being their sure-footed guide,_ or whatever. He was preoccupied. He’d been glad to learn the day before while he had to share a cabin with the terminally cranky Francis Crozier, theirs was the only cabin on the property with separate bedrooms. The men didn’t have to see or talk to each other at all, save for Sir John's staff meetings. Francis had been taking advantage of this. James had sat in the living room of their cabin that previous night, sprawled across the couch with his feet kicked up, thumbing through his dog-eared copy of _How to Win Friends and Influence People_ , waiting for Francis to get back so that he might introduce himself again and get them off to a better start. That didn’t happen. James finally retired to his room around 11:30, having seen hide nor ginger hair of the other man.

It’s not like he just _had_ to have Francis’s attention, or anything, but would it have killed the man to give James the time of day? They were coworkers. Hell, they were _roommates_ for the next few months. They’d sat across the table from one another in the mess hall last night and Francis had pointedly avoided eye contact through the whole meal. Shyness was one thing, as was vocal disdain, but the cold shoulder was something else entirely. James was not about to sit idly by and be _deliberately ignored._ This would not do.

Sir John must have finished his speech then, because the crowd gave a cheer, and Graham, Goodsir, Blanky, and the others were off to meet the campers.

-

Oh, how Ned Little hated bugs.

Not just the scary ones, either. He didn’t like any bugs. Not even _butterflies_. Not that that mattered now. Now, he had stared into his dresser drawer, and the abyss had stared back into him. He had frozen. He couldn’t close the drawer, they had _noticed_ him. He tiptoed backwards, as slowly as he could, so as not to anger the dozens of hornets making their home among his tighty-whities. How they had gotten in and how they had built their nest so quickly didn’t matter at this point; all that mattered was that Ned, having backed himself into a literal corner, was trapped, with a dresser full of bees the size of 747s between him and the only exit.

If he stretched _just so_ , as carefully as possible, no sudden movements, he could reach the laptop he’d tucked under the edge of his bed the night before. He slowly pulled the computer back toward himself, opened it and, alternating every few seconds between pecking at the keyboard and looking up to make sure none of the wasps had emerged from the dresser, drafted an email to Franklin, Crozier, and Fitzjames.

He hit send before he had the chance to look back over what he had written, but he was sure it was clear and thorough enough to get his point across. Something along the lines of:

“Good morning,

I regret to inform you that I have discovered an apparent infestation of flying, stinging insects in Cabin 15. I require immediate assistance in the safe removal of the insects from the premises.

Thanks,

Edward Little”

What he actually sent, word for word, was this:

“HELP

BEES

CABIN 51

Thanks,

Edward Little”

-

“Your coffee, sir. Black, as you requested it.”

“Thank you, Thomas.”

“Do you require anything else at this time, sir?”

“No, Thomas. That’ll be all.”

“Excellent, sir.”

“…Thomas, you may go now.”

“Yes, sir.”

The intern turned to leave Francis’s office, but as he reached for the door handle, someone opened the door from the other side, accidentally slamming it into Jopson’s face.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry!” Henry, the receptionist, gasped. “It’s fine,” Jopson said, muffled through the hand clutching his bleeding nose. Francis rose from his seat, ready to help the kid. “Are you sure you’re alright, Thomas?”

“I’m okay. I just- need to go clean this up.” He fled out the door before Francis could offer him the box of tissues he kept on his desk for when his allergies gave him trouble. Henry and Francis stood there for a moment, confused, before Henry remembered what he had come for in the first place. “Sorry, Mr. Crozier. Mr. Fitzjames is here, sir. He wants to speak with you.”

Francis sighed. “Right. Send him on back, then. Let’s get this over with.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry said, stopping halfway out the door. “Oh, I think you’ve got some, uh, blood on your door. Would you like me to have Mr. Bridgens come and clean it?”

“Please do. Thank you, Henry.”

“Right,” Henry said, and left. The door closed. Francis held his coffee to his face and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. A moment of blessed silence. Then the door slammed open and Fitzjames charged in.

“Why have you been avoiding me, Francis?”

Francis took a long, slow sip of his coffee. “I’ve no earthly idea what you mean, James.” He did, in fact, have some earthly idea of what James meant. Of course he’d been avoiding the man, but there was no polite way to say that it was because he found him absolutely insufferable. It was obvious that he looked down on Francis. How could he not? James was… damn it all, the only word that would come to mind was _sexy,_ and he was clearly well aware of it. You’d have to be, to look like _that_. Francis, meanwhile, knew that on a good day, he could best be described as _potato-esque_. He hadn’t been this self-conscious in a long time, but next to someone as vibrant as James, he was painfully aware of his flaws. If James was the North Star, Francis was, at his brightest, an incandescent lightbulb that was starting to go dim and would need to be replaced with one of those swirly fluorescent ones soon. He knew this, and he didn’t want to bring himself _or_ James, or anyone else, for that matter, down with it. If he’d chosen to stare down at the pile of slop on his plate, then, instead of listening to the man’s story about the time he’d walked the length of the Great Wall for charity, well, that had been his own fucking business, hadn’t it?

Thankfully, the janitor stepped in before James had the chance to challenge him. “Sorry, sirs,” the man said, spraying the door with some kind of cleaner. “Just here to take care of the mess.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bridgens,” Francis said. “James, was there something _important_ you needed to discuss with me?”

Francis made a mental note of how James’s mouth tensed into a tight, firm line when he was angry. He also made a mental note to stop staring at the man’s mouth so much. “Right. Mr. Little in Cabin 15 emailed me earlier. He says there are bees in his cabin. I figured I’d let you know, in case you felt the need to call for pest control, as we usually do in these situations.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“Good. Do.”

-

Thomas Jopson knocked on the door to the on-site coordinator’s office. Normally, he would have just opened it, but the door had no window, so there was no way to tell if someone was standing on the other side. He’d found this out the hard way about ten minutes, several wads of paper towels in the men’s room down the hall, and one blood-soaked dress shirt ago. It had been one of his favorites, too. At least his nose wasn’t broken.

An older gentleman - _the one getting cozy with the secretary at dinner last night_ , Thomas recalled - opened the door. The man, who he expected was a custodian, given the rag and bottle of cleaner he was holding, gave him a pleading look. Beyond him, Thomas could see Mr. Fitzjames towering over the desk, and Mr. Crozier, sitting behind it with a white-knuckled grip on his coffee cup, glowering at each other. “I’m terribly sorry. Am I interrupting something?”

“Thomas!” Mr. Crozier exclaimed, relieved. Whatever Thomas had just walked into, he had the feeling that the interruption was appreciated by everyone in the room, except perhaps Mr. Fitzjames, whose eyes rolled impossibly far back into his head. “No, James and I have just finished our meeting. There’s been an issue in one of the cabins. I need to go and have a look at it, and I’d like for you and Mr. Bridgens to come with me. Do you mind?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“And you, Mr. Bridgens?”

“I can help, if you need me to.”

“Excellent. Let’s go, then.” Mr. Crozier gulped down the last of his coffee, stood, and led the two men out of his office. Mr. Fitzjames still stood in the middle of the office, dumbfounded. Before the door fell shut, Thomas was sure he’d heard him shout, “You could have just called the exterminator!”

-

_This place is beautiful_ , Harry Goodsir thought, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath of fresh mountain air. He was glad to have taken this job for the summer. Working as a surgeon at Morgantown General Hospital had been rewarding, but it became too stressful, and he needed some time away from the operating room. This opportunity had come at the perfect time, too, as Silna would be in and out of the country all summer, taking study abroad groups from the University to Nunavut. He knew he would miss her terribly, but he had encouraged her to go. She loved her work, and she hadn’t been back home in several years. She’d promised to visit him at the camp during the time between her classes when she would be back in town. It also hadn’t hurt that he hadn’t been assigned a roommate (though he wasn’t sure whether it was by accident or on purpose), so they’d had the cabin to themselves the night before. Harry blushed thinking about it. It had been a fond farewell, indeed.

Harry was currently riding on the back of the ATV with the park ranger, whose name he’d learned was Tom Blanky. He was a gruff, no-nonsense sort of man, but he seemed good at heart. Harry had originally started out hiking with the rest of the group, but, as Graham would point out to him later, the shoes he was wearing weren’t really fit for it. He’d brought his instant camera and was taking a picture of a lady’s slipper orchid he’d found - he’d never seen one in the wild before - when he tripped over a tree root and twisted his ankle. Since then, he’d been awkwardly squeezed onto the back of the ATV behind Blanky, who he suspected was getting tired of his humming John Denver’s _Take Me Home, Country Roads_.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Blanky?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've just been... forgive me for saying this, but _a little irritable_ today. I wondered if there was anything I could do to help."

Blanky sighed. "Sorry, doc. It's been a rough week."

"It's only Tuesday."

"Yes."

"I see. Well, let me know if you need anything. I hate to be a bother."

"Well, there is one thing."

"Oh?"

"You could do _Rocky Mountain High_ next. That's my favorite."

-

Hickey really wished he’d thought to smuggle a can of spray paint with him. Not for anything _bad_ , understand, just a bit of a… beautification project. Specifically, painting something vile or vulgar on the Subaru Outback he was leaning against. It didn’t really matter what he’d have painted on it. It was the color of pea soup. You could only get prettier from there.

Ah, well. He’d just have to settle for keying it.

Once he’d got that out of the way, he snuck back around to the rest of the group waiting by the Rangers’ station, just in time to pretend he was planning on writing to his mom and stepdad. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of platitudes and - gag - _sentiment_ , the counselors arrived to pick them up and they began their hike to the camp. Hickey followed at the very back of the group, so he had the best angle from which to watch the other campers. He hadn’t met any of them before, and he wasn’t sure what to expect from them. Some of them seemed like they actually wanted to be here. Others were interesting. Like the one with the acne and the wispy mustache who keeps looking over his shoulder. And the dark-haired one with the thick eyebrows who appears, from the way he reacts to noises, to be deaf in one ear, and the tall, stocky one walking next to him. And the gaunt one with the blond curls and piercing blue eyes. Yes, _especially_ that one.

Who knows? He might make some friends here after all. Or, if nothing else, some fascinating enemies. He’d decide later.

-

John Bridgens stood at the threshold of Cabin 15, holding a flyswatter and a can of Raid like a sword and shield. Behind him, Crozier had taken off a shoe and was holding it defensively, and the intern was awkwardly wielding a glass and a saucer he had retrieved from the break room. “This is my cabin,” he’d said, almost plaintively, when they approached the structure. It must have been his roommate who’d called it in, then. “Give us your key, then,” Crozier said, holding out a hand. The boy handed him the key, and he passed it along to John, who slid it into the lock, turned the knob, and pushed the door open carefully.

They stepped in as slowly and cautiously as one might enter a crime scene. John didn’t see any bees, but he could hear them buzzing inside a dresser drawer that had been left open. The intern called out, “Ned? Are you alright?”

A squeaky voice came from the closet in the back corner of the room: “Thomas?”

The intern - Thomas - responded. “I’m here. Hang on, we’re gonna get you out of there.”

“But there are bees,” the voice whined.

“We’re here to take care of the bees, Mr. Little,” Crozier said, though his tone was less than reassuring. “Now,” he said to himself, “where the bloody hell are they?”

“I think they’re in the dresser, sir,” John answered. “What’s our strategy?”

“Well, we could go for broke. Spray the drawer full of bug poison, hope there’s enough to kill the whole nest so they don’t swarm us. Thomas, what do you think?”

Thomas furrowed his brow in thought. “I have an idea,” he said, after a moment. “But we need to work quickly.”

-

Henry was worried about John.

Not that he didn’t think the man could handle himself. John was one of the strongest men he knew, and the smartest, and- no time for that now. The thing was, Henry’d heard Fitzjames mention bees. John was allergic to bees, and, though he lacked the medical education of someone like Dr. Goodsir, Henry guessed that no amount of strength of character could stave off anaphylaxis. Determined to come to John’s rescue if need be, he’d fished the spare EpiPen out of his bag, asked Fitzjames’s intern, Eddie, to man the front desk until he got back, and power-walked as fast as he could to the cabins.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting to see when he arrived, but it certainly hadn’t been his boyfriend and the camp’s newly-appointed on-site coordinator hurriedly carrying a heavy dresser, the drawers of which were duct-taped shut, down the cabin’s front steps, while Crozier’s intern, Thomas, looked on from the doorway, where he stood, shirt covered in blood from where Henry had accidentally smashed the office door into his face, holding and comforting a trembling camp counselor.

The two of them had miraculously managed to get the dresser down the steps without incident by the time Henry reached the cabin and could take John’s place carrying one side of the dresser, so that John could take the EpiPen and retreat to a safe distance. They carried the dresser as far as they could before Crozier’s back gave out and they were forced to set it down in the gravel path.

It was at that exact moment that Graham Gore and his hikers hove into view over the hillside. It was a recipe for disaster: teenage boys and hornets’ nests were bad enough on their own, but combining them could result in any number of unsavory scenarios, likely up to and including armageddon. Crozier reached this conclusion at the same time Henry did and, straightening up and stretching his lower back, shouted in the most commanding voice he could muster, “Stop walking!”

They stopped. He shouted again. “Get me Mr. Blanky, please!”

The park ranger must have heard this, because after a moment, the ATV pulled around in front of the crowd, and Blanky and Dr. Goodsir, who had been riding with him for some reason, climbed off. Crozier turned to the others back at the cabin. “Mr. Bridgens, go and herd the campers into the mess hall. Thomas, fetch me the bug spray. Mr. Little,“ the one Thomas had been comforting flinched, “go and lie down for a bit.”

Blanky and Goodsir hadn’t quite reached them yet. Blanky already walked with a limp on account of his missing leg, and he was trying to help Goodsir, who was also limping, balance himself. Henry ran over and held out an arm for Goodsir to lean on, and helped him hobble over to where they’d put the dresser down.

Crozier explained the situation, cursing like a sailor all the while. After a few minutes, Thomas emerged from the cabin, can of bug spray tucked under one arm, cup and saucer pressed together in his hands. Careful not to drop the dishes, he angled his elbow out slightly so that Henry could retrieve the bug spray. “Sorry about that, sir,” he panted, “there was- one more-“

"Jesus Christ, what happened here?" Blanky asked, gesturing to the blood on Thomas's shirt. "Nosebleed, sir," Jopson answered. "Completely unrelated." He turned to Crozier. "What should I do with this one, sir?"

Goodsir piped up. “Sorry to butt in. Do you mind if I have a look?” Thomas instinctively looked at Crozier for permission. He shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”

Thomas held out the glass, keeping the saucer clamped over the mouth of it so the insect couldn’t escape. Henry brought Goodsir closer so he could get a better look.

“Ah,” the doctor said, after observing the creature for a moment. “European hornet. _Vespa crabro_. Invasive species, and a nasty one at that. Their stings can require serious medical attention if you get into a nest of them.”

“Lucky Ned’s not out here to hear that,” Thomas said. “Mr. Crozier, Mr. Bridgens, and Mr. Peglar just pulled a dresser full of them out of our cabin.”

“So what’ll you be needing me for, then?” Blanky asked, running a tense hand through his hair.

“Well, I was hoping you could help us figure out what to do with the thing,” said Crozier, putting his hands on his hips.

-

It was Eddie Hoar’s time to shine.

Graphic design was his passion. He’d been absolutely ecstatic when Sir John and Mr. Fitzjames had asked him to run the Official Expedition Youth Camp Email Newsletter, even though he was just a lowly intern. He’d always dreamed of somehow using his design skills to expertly handle a crisis situation. That would certainly show his dad, who had once, upon hearing a flight attendant ask if there was a doctor on board their plane, elbowed him and said _Maybe you should stand up, son, you can go show them how to rotate a PDF_.

But there was no time for that now. Thomas had come in a few minutes earlier, out of breath, holding some dishes, and told him that Mr. Crozier needed him to print a sign, immediately, that would warn people to stay away from a hornets’ nest, and to bring it to Cabin 15 as soon as it was off the printer. This was a Design Emergency.

Eddie cracked his knuckles and opened Microsoft Publisher 2007, his go-to software in times like these. This was it. This was his moment. _Now, how to go about this, aesthetically?_ They needed something stylish, but up-front about the risk of the situation. Add text, pick a font, throw in a couple of attention-catching graphics, and _voila!_ This was his best work yet. He raised his fingers to his mouth and did a chef’s kiss, then printed the sign, grabbed the tape dispenser from Henry’s desk, and ran outside to show the world his magnum opus.

-

“So, sir, would you like me to call the pest control company? I can-“

“That’ll be enough, James. It looks like they’ve got this under control. For now, I need you to find Mr. Le Vesconte and go address the campers in the mess hall,” Sir John said, firmly.

“Right. Okay. I’ll go take care of that, then, if that’s really where I’m needed.”

“Thank you, James.”

James left in a huff. He’d gone to fetch Sir John to deal with an apparent emergency, but when he’d led his boss to Cabin 15, they were greeted by Francis Crozier, who was supervising the receptionist and the park ranger as they lugged a chest of drawers across the path, through a patch of weeds, and around the back of the ATV shed. “That’s as gone as the thing’s gonna get,” Blanky had explained. He wouldn’t be able to haul it down the mountain, because the switchbacks on the dirt trail down would almost certainly result in the dresser being thrown off the back of the ATV and bursting like a grenade full of hornets. Instead, they had elected to tape the thing shut and store it behind the shed, an area that was off-limits to the campers, and adorn it with a warning sign to ward off any curious parties. _I’ll have to promote whoever made that sign_ , he thought. He especially loved the masterful use of Papyrus font and the little pictures of bees. It really got the message across.

-

“I don’t like the food, Tommy.”

“Me neither, Magnus,” Tommy Armitage said, poking at the grayish lump on his plate. The one good thing about his mom shipping him off to Bible camp for the summer was that he wouldn’t be alone. Magnus Manson was Tommy’s best friend. They made a good team, the two of them. Magnus would watch Tommy’s back and make sure he didn’t get himself into any sticky situations, what with his bad ear and all, and if anyone made fun of Magnus for being autistic, Tommy’d beat the shit out of them. They looked out for each other, those two did, and Magnus would definitely need looking after here - there were a couple of goody-two-shoes in the group, but by and large, their fellow campers were assholes. They’d sat in the back of the mess hall to eat their lunch, at a table with a curly-haired boy who looked like he was possessed by the ghost of a dead Victorian child, a gangly, pimply-faced kid with a thin mustache in an Insane Clown Posse shirt, and a sly-looking blond boy in a black hoodie.

The blond one butted in. “S’not good, is it, boys? It’s got me missing the school cafeteria, and that’s saying something.” He pulled a hand out of the pocket of his hoodie and held it out for Tommy to shake, then Magnus. “Name’s Hickey. First name’s not important.” He turned to the other two boys at the table, shaking their hands, as well. “Let’s get to know each other. What are your names?”

“Billy Gibson,” mumbled the haunted-looking one.

“Charlie Des Voeux,” said the juggalo.

“Tommy Armitage,” said Tommy, “and this is my friend, Magnus Manson.”

“Hi,” said Magnus, and did a little wave.

“Off to a great start, then,” Hickey said, with a shit-eating grin. “So, did any of you see the giant wasp?”

“A wasp?” Magnus turned to Tommy, nervously. “That’s no good.” Tommy shook his head in agreement. “Nope, no good at all,” then, to Hickey, “where?”

“Over there,” he said, gesturing toward the other end of the mess hall, where a man in a Hawaiian shirt and a hat that said _I’d rather be fishing!_ was making some speech that no one was listening to. “Near the grumpy one with the hair. Think it likes the smell of his shampoo.”

Tommy looked. Hovering around one of the men at the front of the room, a tall man with impossibly soft-looking hair and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, was the biggest wasp Tommy’d ever seen. Magnus had spotted it, too. “Oh. That’s a big one.”

“It sure is, Magnus,” Hickey interjected. “What are we going to do about it?”

“Should we do anything about it?” Billy asked, without looking up from his plate. Hickey shot him a feigned look of shock. “You don’t want to just let it sting the good counselor, now, do you? Come on, boys, what’s our plan?”

“I’ve got good aim. I could probably hit it with one of these,” Charlie said, holding up a piece of potato he’d skewered on his fork, “knock it down.”

“But that might just make it angry,” said Billy, “And what if they think you threw the potato at them?”

“Don’t worry,” Hickey smiled. “I’ll tell them we were just trying to get rid of that thing. It’s in everyone’s best interest, really. What if someone’s allergic? Can’t have that thing flying around in here if it’s gonna kill someone, can we?” He turned to Charlie. “We’ve got you. The four of us'll back you up. You should take the shot.”

-

If you’d filmed the whole thing and then rewound the tape, you could pinpoint the exact moment when the shit hit the fan.

Graham had been standing between James Fitzjames and Tom Hartnell, as Dundy gave his welcome speech to a mess hall full of uninterested teenagers. Things were going as expected, until the aforementioned moment, when several things happened in quick succession (some of which Graham would have to be told later, as he found himself incapacitated for part of the incident):

Sir John stepped into the mess hall, followed by what seemed like half the camp's staff: the new coordinator, the receptionist, the park ranger, the doctor, the janitor, a counselor, and one of the interns, whose shirt was covered in something Graham hoped wasn't actually blood. They’d clearly finished whatever that business back at the cabins was, and had come to join the rest of the camp for lunch.

The counselor, eyes wide with fright, hid behind the intern, pointing at a spot over James’s head.

James turned to look, but was interrupted by an airborne chunk of potato, which hit him square in the eye.

Someone shouted, “Food fight!”

Sir John took a lump of canned… _something_ to the face. He collapsed to the floor, clutching his chest.

Graham felt a sudden sharp, burning pain in his shoulder. His throat began to swell.

Crozier climbed onto a table, banged loudly on the tabletop with his shoe, and shouted, “Everyone on your knees! Now!”

The campers dropped to their knees, hands in the air, and the mess hall fell silent, except for Graham’s wheezing and Sir John’s groaning.

"Let him through!" Blanky shouted, clearing a path through the throng of people that had surrounded the two casualties so that Dr. Goodsir could limp through, leaning on Henry Peglar's arm.

Dr. Goodsir began performing CPR on Sir John. Henry jabbed an EpiPen into Graham’s thigh.

"Mr. Bridgens, go help Mr. Blanky hitch a trailer to the ATV," Crozier directed. "Thomas, you and Mr. Little go call an ambulance to the Rangers' station. Hurry!"

Graham blacked out.

-

_Everything’s under control now._

_Everything’s under control now._

_Everything’s under control now_ , Tom repeated, counting his breaths like his therapist had taught him. The last thing they needed was a panic attack on top of the heart attack and allergy attack they’d already had to deal with.

Tom had been standing next to Graham when the hornet had stung him, had helped Henry administer the EpiPen, and had helped Mr. Blanky load the two incapacitated men into the trailer. He and Dr. Goodsir had sat in the trailer with them - Tom to keep them from jostling around too much (or, God forbid, falling out of the trailer altogether), and Goodsir to tend to Sir John, who had finally come to and was insisting that he was fine.

He wasn’t fine, according to the doctors at the Harper’s Ferry General Hospital. He’d had a heart attack which, though Goodsir’s quick intervention had prevented his heart from taking much damage, had still caused a brief cardiac arrest. He was going to have to have a pacemaker put in, and it was going to mean an extended period of bedrest and, to quote the ER nurse, “taking it slow.” Graham, meanwhile, was going to be fine, though he’d had no idea he was allergic to hornets. Dr. Goodsir was also being examined, at Graham's insistence. He'd been reluctant to let the nurses look at his ankle - “I don’t want to take up too much of your time; they need the medical attention more than I do,” - but Graham had reassured him that he was going to be fine, so he'd pulled up the leg of his jeans. It looked painfully swollen, but it was only a sprain, according to the nurse who did his X-ray. He begrudgingly agreed to let them put the ankle in a brace.

Tom hated to say it, but he was also kind of lucky, in that he’d managed to do the thing he does best: find a way to solve his most pressing dilemma without actually having to confront the source of the problem. At the moment, his most pressing dilemma was the Irving situation. He’d promised Henry and John the night before that he’d be out of their cabin the next day, but when it came down to it, he had spent most of the day being nervous about it and hadn’t actually come up with any solutions. Now, though, one fell into his lap. While the nurse was adjusting the brace, Goodsir mentioned, in passing, that now that his wife had left, he was without a roommate. Tom saw his opportunity, and he took it. “If you want, I can stay in your cabin,” he offered, “help you out until your ankle’s better. It wouldn’t bother me a bit.” “Oh, thank you for the offer,” Goodsir replied, looking genuinely grateful but somewhat confused. “You’re in number 14 with Reverend Irving, aren’t you? Have the two of you had a falling-out?”

“Not… as such, no, but I’m sure he won’t mind my absence for a bit under these circumstances,” Tom half-lied. He would have time to worry about whether he was being manipulative later.

Goodsir smiled incredulously, considering the offer for a moment. “I suppose you can, if you want to. I would be foolish to refuse the help.”

Tom had tried not to seem too excited after that, but he wasn’t sure he’d managed. At least Henry wouldn't have to make good on his threat to kick Tom's ass after all.

Once Goodsir's ankle was snug in its brace and Sir John's niece had arrived to tend to him, Graham used the phone at the front desk to call Mr. Crozier and let him know they were ready to be picked up, and the three men went outside to wait for their ride. They were sitting on a bench, laughing at some terrible joke Graham had told them, when they saw the ugliest car in the universe pull into the parking lot.

It was an ancient, beat-up, vomit-colored Subaru Outback with a crudely drawn penis scratched into the side of it, and inside were Crozier in the driver’s seat and Fitzjames in the passenger’s seat, holding a bag of frozen Eggo® waffles to his eye. The car pulled up to the bench, and, rolling his eyes, Fitzjames leaned forward and manually cranked the window open.

“Sorry we’re late, men,” Crozier said, “one of the little shits keyed my car.”

The three men piled into the backseat. Graham commented on the only other vehicle in the lot. "That's an awfully nice car for around here," he'd said. "What is it, a Lexus... LC 500, maybe?"

Crozier's face blanched ghost-white. He pulled out of the parking lot so fast his tires squeaked against the pavement and Fitzjames dropped his frozen waffles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot the references, Chapter 2 edition: there's a reference to an early Simpsons episode in here, as well as a nod to [bluebacchus's Chili's fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20768537/chapters/49350587), which, while it did not directly inspire this work, was brilliant and ridiculous and heartwarming enough to motivate me to actually write something for the Bible Camp AU that had been bopping around in my head like a Windows screensaver since I first watched the show. Hope this shoutout isn't weird. I don't know how to interact with other people.
> 
> Harry Goodsir's Moth Facts are all true, because I, too, am a nerd about bugs. While it's not 100% reliable and there are other factors to consider, in moths from the family Saturniidae (which includes cecropia moths), male moths generally have larger, fluffier antennae, whereas female moths' antennae are more sleek and less prominent.
> 
> Speaking of the Goodsir Entomology Extravaganza, he would like to inform you hornets, bees, and wasps are not actually the same thing. Furthermore, if you are Ned Little and find yourself in need of reassurance after that, unless you're allergic or you get swarmed, you are unlikely to require medical attention for a European hornet sting. Still, a whole nest of them in your underwear drawer is decidedly not ideal.
> 
> If you thought Tom Blanky didn't have a favorite John Denver song, you'd be sorely mistaken. He contains multitudes.
> 
> Cornelius Hickey does, in fact, keep a to-do list. It consists of two items: "be gay" and "do crimes." He has one goal in life, and it's to wreak as much havoc as possible in any given situation.
> 
> Francis's car looks like [this.](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/32/5a/32/325a3289669461ff4e0ffe7a0f42a740.jpg) It has hand-crank windows and no air conditioning, and when you press the third radio preset button, the windshield wipers come on. Sophia's car is very new, very fancy, and very expensive.


	3. 100 Push-Ups, Horatio Nelson Fun Facts, a Hospital Gift Shop Teddy Bear, and the Admiral Barrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Punishments are doled out for the incident in the mess hall in the form of push-ups, and Hickey and the gang begin plotting their revenge. Meanwhile, Tom Hartnell realizes something about himself, David Young catches a stomach bug, Will Pilkington gets jealous, Francis and James come to an understanding, and Sir John makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a little emotional in places, but that's okay! These boys just needed to work through some of their issues! 
> 
> Still, you should know that this chapter contains the following: injuries (including a brief medical description of an eye injury), some mild allusions to (but no actual incidences and a firm condemnation of) corporal punishment for children, being accidentally outed at work, and honest (but non-graphic) discussions about addiction, abusive parents, internalized transphobia, and the fear of discrimination.
> 
> Don't worry, though. It ends on a happy note, and everyone feels better for having gone ahead and talked about it, because at this Bible camp, we acknowledge our trauma so we can heal from it (even if it takes us several chapters).

“Are you sure you don’t want to ask Francis to take care of this, Uncle John?”

“I’m fine, Sophia, I assure you. We’ll go home after this.”

“Did I tell you that Aunt Jane texted me? Her plane should be boarding right about now.”

“Yes, you did. Thank you, Sophia.”

Sophia Cracroft pushed her stubborn uncle’s wheelchair up the gravel path to the mess hall. The doctors had told him to rest up and not to do anything too stressful before his operation later that week, so naturally, he’d insisted on coming back to the Expedition Youth Camp at the ass-crack of dawn to confront the kids who’d landed him in the hospital in the first place. John Franklin may have been a Rear Admiral in the Navy, and he may have been a war hero, but what he was not was someone who was above getting into a fight with a bunch of greasy teenagers.

They stopped at the entrance to the mess hall, and she walked around in front of him to prop the door open so he could wheel himself inside, where a group of five boys were assembled. A couple of them had their heads down, like they were ashamed. The one in the middle with the dirty-blond hair was smiling and didn’t break eye contact with Sir John. At one of the tables sat Solomon Tozer, the ex-Marine, and James Fitzjames, who had a black eye. On the far end of the room stood Francis, who was wearing a blue shirt and trousers and standing in front of a blue curtain in the hope that Sophia wouldn’t notice him. It wasn’t working.

Sir John wheeled himself in front of the boys, and Sophia went to stand behind him. He began to address the crowd.

“I don’t know which one of you is responsible for starting the food fight yesterday, and I don’t rightly care. This camp is here to help you rehabilitate, boys, so you had better take that opportunity while it’s offered to you. And I assure you, if you’re going to continue to act like a bunch of holy terrors, you will have the fear of God put into you. Are we clear?”

Each boy mumbled his reluctant assent, save for the one in the middle - their ringleader? - who looked Sir John in the eye and responded, “Yes, sir,” clear as day.

“Now, Francis- er, Lieutenant Crozier, will you tell the boys what their punishment is to be?”

“Yes, sir,” Francis said, stepping forward and consciously making an effort to look in every direction except Sophia’s. “You will each do thirty push-ups, supervised by Mr. Tozer here, and after that, the five of you will be on early lights-out until you have proven you are willing to do better.”

Most of the boys nodded. The one in the middle stepped forward.

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think that’s fair.”

“Excuse me?” Francis raised his eyebrows, face turning tomato-red.

“Well, sir, if you don’t know whose fault it is, why do you want to make all of us suffer for it? That’s collective punishment, sir. It’s a war crime.”

“We are not at war, Mr. Hickey, we are at summer camp. The Geneva Conventions do not apply here.”

“Sir-“

Sir John gave Francis a look as if to say _Are you going to let him get away with that?_ Frowning, Francis turned to Tozer. “Fifty push-ups for that one, then.”

“We were trying to help, sir. We saw the hornet that stung that counselor, sir, and we wanted to take it out. You can’t punish us for that, sir-“

"Francis-"

“Seventy push-ups-“

“Sir, that’s not fair-“

"Francis!"

“A hundred push-ups, Mr. Hickey!” Francis shouted over Sir John, who chimed in, pulling out a wooden paddle that had been tucked into his wheelchair and cracking it against his palm. “You’d best stop talking, Cornelius, unless you’d like to be on the receiving end of the Admiral Barrow here.”

The kid probably wasn’t in any danger of actually being paddled - Sir John wasn’t in any condition to administer such a punishment, and Sophia knew that Francis would never lay a hand on a kid, insolent teen or otherwise (hell, just the sight of the thing was enough to put Francis visibly on edge). Still, he cocked his head to the side, said, “Right,” and stepped back into line.

“Now, if you’re finished acting out, you may go with Mr. Tozer,” Francis said. Tozer stood up, nodding his head toward the door. The boys filed out behind him.

-

_And remember, kids! God made you special, and he loves you very much!_

Henry had clearly walked in on something. “Tom, are you watching VeggieTales on the break room TV?”

“Maybe.”

“Which one’s up next?”

“ _Dave and the Giant Pickle_.”

“Move over.”

Tom scooted over, and Henry sat down. “John’ll be here in a minute. He’s bringing waffles. Hey, are you alright?”

“Dundy wants me to help Irving with his arts and crafts class today. They’re making cards for Sir John.”

“I see. Well, hey. It might not be that bad. You two were drunk, right? Maybe he doesn’t remember you.”

“Oh, thanks. That makes me feel better.”

“Do you… _want_ him to remember you?”

“I don’t know! I never want to see him again, but I also _really_ want to see him again, and it’s giving me heartburn.”

Just then, John walked in with a toaster under one arm and a bag of half-thawed Eggo® waffles under the other. In his hands were a bottle of generic maple syrup and a large jar of peanut butter. “I brought the peanut butter,” he said, “I know it’s your favorite- oh. Hello, Tom. Is everything okay? You look a little stressed.”

“He’s in love, John.”

“I see.”

“Hey, no I’m not! I’m- I’m straight. I think. I don’t like him like that.”

“Honey, you’re alone in the break room watching VeggieTales at 6 AM on a Wednesday.”

“Oh, God, I _do_ like him like that.”

John plugged the toaster in and shoved a couple of waffles inside. Tom groaned. “What do I do? I’ve never dated a guy before. I’ve barely even dated _girls_. And he’s a Methodist minister! Even if he was… uh… like that, he couldn’t say so, or he’d lose his job. Oh, God, what am _I_ gonna do?”

“You could quit seminary school and join the circus,” Henry offered, jokingly. Tom seemed to seriously consider it for a moment. The toaster popped, and John brought Henry his waffles, slathered in peanut butter and drenched in syrup. “You know, Tom, he has to be at least a little _like that_ , or he wouldn’t have slept with you in the first place,” John added, putting more waffles in the toaster.

“I guess that’s true. I just- wait. How can you stand to eat that?”

“It’s actually really good. Here, have a bite.” Henry cut off a bit of waffle, picked it up with his fork, and shoved it into Tom’s mouth before he had the chance to close it. He chewed for a second, the look on his face indecipherable. He swallowed. “That’s- hmm.”

“Really good, right?”

“It kind of is.”

Tom decided to have his waffles with peanut butter that morning. Once John finished toasting his own waffles, he sat down with Henry and Tom, just in time for _Silly Songs With Larry_. He wouldn’t miss _I Love My Lips_ for anything.

-

“And… 100,” Mr. Tozer counted. Cornelius Hickey collapsed onto the ground. His arms were as good as jelly. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson, boys. You’re dismissed.” The man, who had apparently been in the Marine Corps at one point and took nothing on the planet more seriously than push-ups, walked away. The others, who had been sitting on the ground nearby, watching as Hickey completed his extra push-ups, moved in. Magnus Manson spoke first. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be alright, Magnus. Help a mate up, will you?” Magnus extended a hand and Hickey grabbed it and pulled himself up. “Thanks, man.” “You’re welcome,” said Magnus. “Is your name really Cornelius?”

“It’s Hickey to you,” Hickey snapped. “Now, Holy Terrors, what are we going to do about that paddle Sir John's so keen on?”

-

“Don’t you think threatening them with the paddle was just a _little_ excessive on his part?”

“I mean, _yes_ , obviously, but for God’s sake, Francis. You gave the kid 100 push-ups.”

“Yes, and I already feel bad enough about having to do _that_ , but what the hell else was I supposed to do, let Sir John intervene? At least this way the kid'll learn his lesson without getting hurt. There's a difference between discipline and abuse, James. Sir John may not know it, my father may not have known it, but I do, and Idon’t want to be that kind of man.”

An awkward silence hung in the air between the two men for a moment, in much the same way bricks don’t. _Shit_ , Francis thought. _I’ve overshared. And we were just starting to get along._

The previous afternoon, after Sir John and Graham Gore were taken to the emergency room and the situation in the mess hall was dealt with, Francis had had the counselors show the campers to their cabins, and had stayed behind with James to help tend to his injured eye. It looked worse that it actually was: the impact had burst a small blood vessel, which was bleeding into the sclera, but that cleared up pretty quickly. The eyelid was swelling, though, and would probably bruise. Francis sat James down at one of the tables and went to the kitchen to get something cold to put on it. Because so much of the food came in those damned cans, there was a limited variety of items in the freezer. Francis chose the one that looked the most reasonably portable, a bag of toaster waffles, and brought it to James.

They were on speaking terms after that. James had even elected to go with Francis to pick the men up from the hospital after that, making fun of his car the whole way (“Is- is this supposed to come off?” “Yes.” “...” “No, it’s not. Give it here.” “You know you could just get a better car, right?” “There’s no point in spending money on a new one when this one still runs!”). This morning, after the confrontation, the two of them once again sat in the empty mess hall. One of them was going to have to speak eventually.

James broke the silence. “So, dare I ask what happened between you and Sir John’s niece?”

Francis became defensive. “What makes you think anything happened between us?”

“Yesterday, when you saw her car in the hospital parking lot, you went all _Tokyo Drift_ ,” James explained, “and I saw you trying to camouflage yourself against the curtains this morning. What happened, Francis?”

Francis sighed. “How much has Sir John already told you?”

“He mentioned that Sophia had rejected your advances, and that you’d recently recovered from a drinking problem. That’s all I know.”

“Of course. Why should he have any respect for my privacy?”

“Francis.”

“Do you know why I’m here at all, James? Sir John gave me the job because he felt _sorry_ for me. Sophia and I were… involved for three years. I proposed to her the first time after a year. She told me she wasn’t ready. I waited two more years to give her time to get ready, and I proposed again, and she ended things. Then, not a month after that, my father died, and Sir John, who knew good and damn well that I didn’t give a single shit about that man, insisted on sending me home with a damned hardship discharge, because it was easier for him to end my career than it was for him to be around me after what happened with her.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“How could you have?” Francis sighed again, and leaned his head on his hand. “I’m not blameless here, James. I’d always had a fondness for whiskey, but after that, I went overboard. Not long after that, I showed up at his house in the middle of the night, absolutely hammered, demanding he let me in. He came to the door to try to reason with me, and I- I hit him. Lady Jane called the cops, but he told me he wouldn’t press charges if I would get help. I checked myself into an inpatient rehab program the next day.” He pulled a bronze coin out of his pocket, turned it over in his hand a couple of times, and held it out to the other man. “I didn’t want to be that kind of man, James.”

James took the coin, looked at it, then back at Francis, and choked up a bit. “Francis, I-"

He was cut short by Thomas Jopson bursting through the door.

“Sir, Dr. Goodsir needs- sorry. Is now a bad time?”

“Go ahead, Thomas.”

“Right. Dr. Goodsir needs to see you. Says it’s urgent.”

“Thank you, Thomas. Tell him I’ll be right there.”

Thomas left, and Francis stood. “I should probably go see what this is about. I’ll talk to you later, James.” For the first time, Francis smiled at him, before turning and following the intern out the door, leaving James alone in the mess hall, holding Francis’s one-year sobriety token, which was still warm from the man’s pocket. He held it up to the light, studying it, and neglecting to notice Sir John, with a pensive look on his face, wheeling out of the men’s room, through the door Sophia had left propped open, and into the morning sunshine, thinking something along the lines of _Perhaps I've been a bit too harsh_.

-

The clinic’s fax machine stuttered to life and, with an unnatural, mechanical, retching sort of sound, spat out David Young’s medical records. Harry retrieved the boy’s chart from the machine and thumbed through the pages. _Fifteen years old. History of asthma. Tonsillectomy, age 6_. He fished a pair of rubber gloves out of a box hanging on the wall, pulled them on, donned a face mask, and entered the exam room.

A slight, reddish-haired boy sat on the exam table, clutching his stomach. Harry was glad he had called for Mr. Crozier. He had originally felt a little silly and had been afraid he was overreacting, but David was in worse condition than he thought. He stuck a thermometer into the kid’s mouth. _101_. That wasn’t good.

There was a knock at the door. “Sir,” Thomas Jopson called from the other side, “Mr. Crozier is here to see you.”

“Tell him I’ll be right out,” Harry called back. He fished a bottle of ibuprofen and a Dixie cup out of a cabinet, filled the cup with water, and handed both to David. “Take this. It should help to bring your fever down,” he said, in a tone he hoped was calming. Harry tended to overcompensate for an unfortunate side effect of his career as a surgeon: when one’s patients are under anesthesia for most of one’s interaction with them, one’s bedside manner tends to atrophy. He was certainly friendly enough, yes, but his desire to educate as well as to reassure had led him to inadvertently startle patients on more than one occasion (they did not tend to find it reassuring, for instance, that he had performed the exact same procedure they were about to undergo on twenty different cadavers during medical school). “I’ll be right back, David. Um,” he rummaged around in the cabinet again, pulling out a metal tray and a tongue depressor. “Sort of… drum on this. If you need anything.”

He handed David the implements and stepped out of the room to speak to Mr. Crozier.

“Harry,” the man said, a concerned look on his face, “you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, Mr. Crozier-“

“You can call me Francis.”

“Sorry. Francis. We have a probable case of norovirus infection, sir.”

“Will the kid be okay?”

“Almost certainly, though he will be miserable for a few days. It’s… um, gastrointestinal, sir.”

“I see. So, what did you need from me, Harry?”

“Norovirus can be spread interpersonally, sir, but we’ve had no other cases. There’s a chance that this was caused by some sort of… contamination, in the food or water. Sir.”

“Is there any way to test for it?”

“No, sir. We can only isolate the boy - David Young - and wait to see if any other cases crop up.” A metallic sort of thumping sound came from inside the exam room. “Sorry, I need to go and check on him now.”

“Very well. Thank you, Harry. Thomas, come with me. Let’s go see about setting up a separate cabin for Mr. Young.”

-

John Irving was covered in glitter.

He should have expected this when he’d seen that it was among the arts and crafts supplies he’d retrieved from the supply room in the administrative building. He wanted to give the boys the opportunity to express themselves, though, so he let them use it. This was a mistake. Not ten minutes into their crafting session, during which they were meant to be making get-well cards to send to Sir John after his surgery, a boy wearing a shirt with a clown on it bumped into Irving and accidentally (read: _very obviously intentionally_ ) dumped purple glitter all over the pastor. When he went to the bathroom to clean himself up, he found glitter on his shirts (a plaid flannel shirt over a tee with Philippians 4:13 printed on it) and in his beard, and, when he took his shirts off to shake them out, there was glitter _in his chest hair_. He briefly wondered if he could get away with sneaking an extra commandment into the boys’ bibles: _Thou shalt not glitter-bomb John Irving_.

The counselor who’d been helping him supervise the Arts and Crafts Hour and his almost-roommate, Tom Hartnell, entered the bathroom. Irving blushed. Shirtless and covered in glitter, he looked straight out of a damn pride parade. Not that there was anything wrong with that. God loves all His children.

Hartnell also turned red. “Sorry to barge in. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Do you- do you need any help with that?”

“Bless you. I could use a couple of damp paper towels, actually.”

Hartnell got a handful of towels out of the dispenser, ran them under the faucet, and handed them over. His eyes caught on the ring Irving wore around his neck.

“Oh, do you recognize that? I found it a while back. I’ve been looking for its owner.”

A long pause.

“Nope, never seen it before in my life. Sorry, I’d- uh- I’d better get back out there, get back to supervising the card-making. Good luck with your, uh,” his eyes flicked down to Irving’s chest, then back up, and the shade of pink on his cheeks darkened. “That.”

That was the fastest Irving had ever seen a man leave a room.

He got back to cleaning the glitter off himself and tried to ignore the fluttery feeling in his stomach.

-

Will Pilkington knew his boyfriend was still in love with Bill Heather.

It was obvious from the way they interacted. The three of them were assigned to run archery classes for the campers, and though Will had hoped that Sol would ignore his ex, it seemed like the man was determined to spend his day by Bill’s side, laughing at Bill’s jokes and…

Will sighed. Was he being too possessive? He’d never known what Sol had seen in him, honestly. Solomon Tozer was, in the broadest terms, an ex-Marine (he’d never actually seen combat; he had to be sent home from basic training after he threw his back out), and he had the physique to match. More than that, he was _pretty_. He could have anyone he wanted. Sometimes Will worried that Sol had only chosen him because his name sounded so much like Bill’s, but that didn’t really hold up when you stood the two of them side by side. Bill was a large, imposing man (Will might have called him a bear if he’d been comfortable enough in his sexuality to use terms like that), and Will had a small frame and a personality to match. They were nothing alike. Anyone could see it, and Will knew it as well as anybody: he just wasn’t Sol’s type.

It was this that distracted him as he was showing a camper how to hit one of the targets on the course. He loaded the arrow and pulled back the bowstring for the demonstration, Bill Heather put his arm around Solomon Tozer, and Will Pilkington loosed his arrow straight into James Fitzjames.

-

Thomas, along with Ned’s assistance, was helping Mr. Crozier to clear out a cabin to use as a quarantine for David Young when Mr. Blanky burst in. “Frank, there’s been an emergency.”

“What, has someone been shot?”

“Yes.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Fitzjames. Down by the archery range. Someone overshot a target and he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’s alright. I put him on the ambulance myself. The paramedics said he’d be fine. Didn’t pierce any major arteries or anything. Didn’t lose much blood at all. He’s holding up pretty well for someone who’s got an arrow sticking out of him. Went clean through his arm, into his side.”

“Like the shot that killed Lord Nelson at Trafalgar,” Ned muttered, and Mr. Blanky looked at him like he had three heads.

“Tom,” Francis changed the subject back to the matter at hand, with a tenuous but deliberate calm. “Take me to my car, please.”

“I think he’ll be fine, Frank-“

“Take me to my car, Tom.”

Mr. Blanky sighed. “Alright, come on.” Crozier and Blanky walked out of the cabin they’d been in, and Thomas and Ned heard the ATV drive off, leaving them alone in the cabin.

“Horatio Nelson? Really?”

“I share fun facts when I’m stressed. It’s a problem.”

“Well, I guess we can only hope for a ‘Kiss me, Hardy’ scenario. Maybe then they’ll stop bickering.”

“Those weren’t actually his last words, they were-“

“God, would you shut up and make out with me already?”

-

Charlie Des Voeux was a master of stealth.

So when Hickey had suggested they send someone into the administrative building to do some recon, see if they could spot where they were keeping the paddle that Sir John had called the Admiral Barrow, Charlie jumped at the chance. He’d considered asking if he could wear his face paint as a disguise, but he didn’t want to push his luck. During lunchtime, the five boys, who had taken to calling themselves the Holy Terrors since Sir John’s speech that morning, snuck out of the mess hall and assembled somewhere no one would find them.

“Alright, Terrors,” Hickey said, leaning up against an old dresser that was covered in duct tape and had a sign with pictures of Barry B. Benson from the _Bee Movie_ and the words _DANGER!!! BEES!!!_ on it. “How are we going to go about this, hmm?”

“I think that’s got bees in it, Cornelius.” Hickey rolled his eyes. He’d given up on Magnus calling him by his last name.

“It’s fine, Magnus. Let’s stick to the heist, please.”

“But it says _danger bees_ , Cornelius.”

“Magnus, I know what I’m-“ he yelped, jumping up and away from the dresser.

“You alright?” Billy asked.

“Looks like he got his ass cheek stung,” Tommy said, stifling a laugh.

“Told you there was bees, Cornelius.”

Hickey rolled his eyes and apologized sarcastically. “Right. Yes, I’m fine. Yes, I got stung. Sorry, Magnus. Now. Can we stop talking about my ass and get back to the matter at hand?”

“What if you and Charlie go in,” Tommy suggested, “and ask the guy at the front desk for some medicine for your- your-“ he couldn’t stop giggling. “Ass wound.”

Magnus, Billy, and Charlie started snickering. Steam was practically coming out of Hickey’s ears. “Fine. Let’s do that. Charlie, let’s go.”

Hickey and Charlie walked off, and the rest of the Terrors erupted into laughter.

-

Ned Little was now entirely convinced that he had, in fact, died and gone to Heaven.

Or Hell, he supposed, but if Hell involved being pushed up against the wall of an empty cabin with Thomas Jopson’s tongue in his mouth, well, Satan wasn’t doing such a good job with the whole _eternity of suffering_ thing, was he?

Thomas let go of Ned’s hair for a moment to undo his jeans and reach inside, before pulling away abruptly, giggling.

“Are you really not wearing any-“

“It’s full of bees, okay? It was in the dresser, and now it’s full of bees.”

“What, every single pair?”

“Yes.”

“So you were just going to go commando for the rest of the summer.”

“Maybe.”

“God, you’re an idiot,” Thomas said, kissing him again.

Ned kissed back. “That just means you have terrible taste in men.”

“Lucky you, then,” Thomas said, grinning, and pulled him away from the wall and onto the nearby bed.

_-_

The administrative building's doorbell (which was just a bunch of jingle bells on a string taped to the back of the door) chimed, and Eddie looked up from the computer. He was responsible for the front desk while Henry was on his lunch break, but he hadn’t expected any visitors. He figured it would be Tom Hartnell, who had just walked out, coming back in to grab something he'd forgotten. Instead, two campers entered, one of them scowling and rubbing his backside. _That’s weird_ , Eddie thought. _Aren’t they supposed to be in the mess hall right now?_ Oh well. Now was his time to prove that he could greet visitors as well as any receptionist. “Hello, how can I help-“

“My friend here,” said the taller, darker-haired one, who was wearing a _Great Milenko_ shirt that Eddie was reasonably sure was the same one he’d bought at Hot Topic while he was going through a phase in high school and had later unceremoniously donated to Goodwill. “He needs- he needs medicine for his-“ the boy dissolved into laughter and couldn’t finish his sentence. The shorter, lighter-haired one was fuming. “I got stung. By a bee. And I need some medicine for it. Please.”

“You should see Dr. Goodsir-“

“He’s busy,” the boy insisted. The other one was still wheezing.

“I guess I can check the first aid kit in the break room. Hang on.”

-

“Sweetheart, you are a wonderful, valid young man, but I swear to God, if you don’t stop describing the pastor’s chest hair to me, I’m actually going to vomit.”

It was lunchtime, and Tom Hartnell was in the break room again. On the one hand, that Tom found Harry such a calming presence and trusted him to give good advice made John’s heart swell with pride. On the other hand, it was starting to feel like they’d inadvertently adopted a kid. They’d talked about adopting, sure, but they both agreed they wanted to get married first, and they weren’t even out at work yet. (There was a chance they’d _never_ be out at work, but they tended to dance around that subject.) Also, they’d never had occasion to discuss the prospect of their adoptive child being a 22-year-old man with severe anxiety and a _VeggieTales_ addiction.

“I think you should just tell him it’s your ring, Tom. What’s the worst that could happen?” John asked.

“He could punch me. He could punch himself, and then I’d feel bad. Oh, God, he could punch me and _then_ himself-“

“Tom. Breathe,” Henry said, rubbing his shoulder soothingly. “You don’t have to talk to him right now. You should sleep on it, okay? Maybe you can talk to Dr. Goodsir about it, since you’re staying with him. I know he’s not a shrink, but he seems nice enough.”

“Is that your way of asking me to leave so you two can have some alone time?”

“No, it’s okay-“

“Yeah. Get out,” Henry interrupted John, giving Tom a playful shove.

“Alright, I yield,” Tom said, playing along, holding his hands up. He stood and made his way to the door. “I know when I’m not wanted,” he said, with a wink.

“You’re damn right,” Henry laughed. “And don’t you ever wink at me again.”

Tom winked again, rebelliously. Then he smiled, did a little wave, and was out the door.

“Now, where were we?” Henry asked.

“In the break room. At lunchtime. There’s not much we can get away with right now,” John answered.

Henry looked disappointed. “I know, I just missed seeing you at lunchtime, that’s all.”

“It’s been one day since we had lunch together.”

“Yeah, and I missed you,” Henry said, leaning in and planting a kiss on John’s cheek. “We don’t have to do anything, but maybe we can just… cuddle a bit?”

“Fine,” John said, with mock reluctance, and threw an arm around Henry, who pressed a kiss to his lips this time. “We can just cuddle a bit.”

Henry kissed John, and John kissed Henry, and Eddie Hoar walked into the break room.

-

Hickey watched as the young man got up from his desk, walked to the end of the hallway, and opened a door. Beyond that door was their holy grail: the Admiral Barrow. Even more interesting than that, though, was what was beneath it. It had been propped against the wall, on top of a snack machine. Fascinating, indeed. Hickey remembered the food they’d been served in the mess hall, and began to wonder what some campers might give for a chocolate bar or a bag of potato skins. Things were starting to come together.

The man came back from the room, blushing furiously. He silently held out a bandage and a packet of Benadryl gel to Hickey, then sat at the desk, never breaking his thousand-yard stare, even as Hickey and Charlie left the office.

-

“Sir, I’m going to need you to step out of the room for a moment.”

“Alright, then. I’ll come back in a few minutes, shall I?”

“That’ll be fine.” Francis left James’s hospital room. By the time he had arrived, they had managed to remove the arrow and clean and dress the wound. He’d been there for a few hours, and hadn’t left James’s room the whole time. By the time the nurse came in and shooed him away, James’s painkillers were starting to wear off. She checked over her shoulder to see if Francis was still there, then asked James, softly, “I noticed your eye. How did that happen?”

“A child threw a potato at me.”

She hadn't heard that one before. “I see. So, how long have you two been together?”

James’s eyes widened. He was still ever-so-slightly fuzzy from the pain meds they’d given him, and he hadn’t realized what she’d meant by her initial question. “Oh, we’re not- he’s my boss. At the summer camp. Where I work.”

Ah. The summer camp. He wasn't kidding about the potato, then. “I see. We just have to check, you know? Now, if you’ll take off your gown for a moment, I just need to check the bandages on your side.”

James complied, and she removed the bandage from its position just shy of his left breast. Ironically, one of the things he hated most about his body might have just saved his life: if he hadn’t been wearing a binder, the arrow would have gone further, possibly puncturing a lung. As he was musing on that, Francis walked in, carrying a teddy bear and a balloon from the gift shop. James’s stomach dropped. Francis had seen. He had _seen_.

As if there was nothing amiss, Francis sat back down in the chair next to James’s bed. The nurse replaced the bandage and helped him put his gown back on. Francis handed him the bear, which held a stuffed heart shape, onto which was embroidered the phrase _BEARY SORRY_. Underneath that, in Sharpie, Francis had hastily written _THAT YOU GOT SHOT_.

“You two are adorable,” the nurse said, and left the room.

They sat in silence for a moment, Francis looking expectantly at James and James avoiding eye contact, clutching the bear, and trying not to cry.

Finally, James sighed. “Aren’t you going to say something about it?”

“About what?”

“You _know_ what! That- that I’m not-“

“What aren’t you?”

“I’m not- I’m not a man like you, Francis! Christ, can’t you _see_ that I’m-“

“I would never think that about you.”

“Think _what?_ ”

“That you’re any less of a man because of what you look like with your bloody shirt off, James! There’s nothing wrong with you, don’t say there is.”

James was openly sobbing now. “I thought- I thought you hated me. I thought it was because- because you… _suspected_.”

Francis was beginning to shed tears, as well. He took James’s hand. “No, never, James. I didn’t hate you. I don’t hate you. Not for this, not for anything.” He paused. “No, it was my fault. I was… afraid. Afraid you’d look down on me. For what I used to be.”

“Never. You’re- you’re a good man.”

“I saw you hurt, yesterday, after the… incident, and I realized that I- the way I _treated_ you- I was becoming something I never wanted to be. You know, my father once gave me the silent treatment for a month straight when I was a boy. I never forgave him for it. I hope you can forgive me, James.”

“Of course I forgive you.” They smiled at one another through their now-drying tears before Francis remembered something.

“I forgot. I also got you this.” He handed James the balloon, and James began to cry anew, but not out of sadness this time. “When you were asleep, the nurse came in to check on you, and I, uh, saw. Then. Accidentally. I didn’t want to invade your privacy, but it felt wrong not to let you know that I knew. They didn’t really have anything appropriate in the gift shop, but I wanted to get something to… to show you that I don’t mind. Who you are. I don’t mind.”

“It’s… more than I could have hoped for, Francis. Genuinely. Thank you.”

On the balloon, in pastel blue Curlz font, surrounded by cartoon rubber ducks, were the words _IT’S A BOY!_

_-_

Tom Blanky didn’t know what had transpired at the hospital. What he did know was that when Frank pulled into the Rangers’ station parking lot, there was a smile on his face, and he got out and opened the passenger’s side door for Fitzjames, who had his left arm in a sling, and a large McDonald’s bag under the right.

The three of them took their dinner in Frank’s office. They’d brought Tom a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese, for which he was immensely grateful, as it seemed like whoever sold Sir John the camp’s food for the summer had been playing some kind of cruel joke. Frank had just taken the first bite of his McChicken when the intern, Jopson, barged in, followed by the janitor and the secretary. “Mr. Bridgens and Mr. Peglar want to speak with you, sir.”

With a frown, Frank gulped down the bite of McChicken and spoke. “Thank you, Thomas.”

“Sir, may we speak to you in private?” The janitor, Bridgens, asked.

“Whatever you have to say to me, Mr. Bridgens, you may say in front of these two.”

Bridgens looked nervous, and he and the receptionist, Peglar, looked at each other, before Bridgens continued. “Sir, Henry and I are-“

“We’re in a relationship. We’ve been together for five years. If you’re going to fire us, go ahead and do it,” Henry interrupted. “We just wanted to… clarify. Whatever Eddie told you.”

“Eddie hasn’t told me anything,” interjected Fitzjames. “What’s going on?”

“Now, hold on!” Frank commanded. “I’m not firing anyone. Now, what’s this with Eddie?”

“He- um-“ John stuttered. Henry chimed in. “He saw us kiss, earlier. In the break room. We weren’t doing anything unprofessional, I swear. He just… walked in at a bad time, and-“

John regained his composure. “We wanted you to hear it from us, sir. So if you need to take any… disciplinary measures, you’ll have the full story.”

“What the hell do you mean, _disciplinary measures_?”

“Mr. Crozier, this is a Christian camp, and we’re- Sir John would-“

“I am not Sir John, Mr. Bridgens. He may be… _set in his ways_ , but I am in charge here for the time being, and I’ll be damned if I fire someone for belonging to a community of which I myself am a part. That would be hypocrisy of the worst kind, and I will not allow any such intolerance in any organization for which I am responsible. Are we clear?”

Frank sure knew how to go on a tirade. Bridgens’s jaw had dropped, Peglar’s eyes were wide with surprise, and hell, even Fitzjames was blushing. After a tense pause, Peglar spoke. “So, we’re not in any trouble, sir?”

“Absolutely not. I would warn you about professionalism and keeping your work and personal lives separate, but if this has been going on for five years without incident, it seems like the two of you are smart enough not to need that talk.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“One thing, though, before you go, Mr. Peglar.”

“Yes?”

“Do watch the public displays of affection. Wouldn’t want to spook Mr. Hoar again.”

-

Sophia wheeled Sir John down the hallway of the administrative building, past two staff members who looked very relieved, and into Francis’s office. James and the park ranger were in the office, and the three of them were eating fast food. Francis swallowed and sat down his partially-eaten chicken sandwich, pointedly not making eye contact with Sophia. “Good evening, sir. Did you need something from me?”

“That I did, Francis,” he said, wheeling out of Sophia’s grasp and toward the desk. “I need to speak to you about the leadership of this camp.”

“Is there a problem, sir?”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind in the last couple of days, Francis. I think I'm getting too old for this. And I don’t think I’ve treated you fairly.”

“Sir?”

“I am… retiring, Francis. As the director of this camp. I created the position of on-site coordinator for you, but, despite the fact that it has only been three days, it has been an eventful three days, and you have proven to me not only that you are more than qualified to run this camp, but that you deserve more than a title I created to spare my own ego.”

Francis sat and stared for a moment, perplexed. “What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean, Francis, that if you will accept it, I would like to place the directorship of this institution in your capable hands.”

“Sir.”

“If there is one thing I’ve learned from this, it is that life is short, and I have spent too much of mine doubting you. Of course, the Rear Admiral John and Jane Franklin Foundation will retain ownership of the camp, and I will maintain my status as chairman of the steering committee, but I am turning over the running of the camp to you, in full. You are long overdue for a promotion, Francis, and I have been remiss in my duties as your commanding officer. Please, tell me you will accept my offer.”

Something shifted in Francis then. “I- yes, sir. I accept.”

“Excellent. Now, Sophia and I must be off. We’re meeting the Lady Jane at the airport this evening.”

“Enjoy your retirement, sir,” Fitzjames said, smiling warmly. “You will be missed.”

“Thank you, James. After I recover from that blasted pacemaker surgery, I do believe the three of us - myself, my wife, and Sophia here - will be doing some traveling. Lady Jane’s always wanted to see Brazil, and the Taj Mahal, and I want to take her before I run out of time.”

“Have an excellent journey, then. Enjoy your time together as a family. I mean it,” Francis said softly, making eye contact with Sophia for the first time since she entered the room, and smiling wistfully. “Both of you.”

Sophia smiled back at him. “Have fun with your new job, Frankie.” She took her uncle’s wheelchair, turned him around, waved back at the three men in the room, and left.

Once the door shut behind her, Blanky and Fitzjames looked at each other, then at Francis. Finally, Fitzjames acknowledged the elephant in the room. “‘Frankie?’ Really?”

“Shut up. My McChicken’s getting cold,” Francis said, taking another bite of his sandwich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot the References, Chapter 3 Edition: Hitchhiker's Guide, Cabin Pressure, Seinfeld, and [that time the former FBI director tried to hide in some curtains at the White House to avoid the President.](https://www.nytimes.com/2017/05/18/us/politics/james-comey-memo-fbi-trump.html)
> 
> Personally, I think any amount of push-ups is excessive, but 100 of them is no worse than a bad day in a high school gym class, and is certainly better than being whacked with a wooden plank. Paddling has largely fallen out of favor as a punishment, but was still common practice in parts of rural Appalachia when I was growing up, and is still championed in some of those places by people who are old-fashioned and not very nice (*cough* Sir John, before he comes to his senses *cough*). For the record: don't hit your kids.
> 
> If you want to learn more about the UMC's problematic track record with the LGBTQ community, feel free to Google it. Don't worry, though - Hartnell and Irving will get a happy ending, because this is my story, and because, and I mean this seriously and wholeheartedly: fuck the church, and not in the fun way.
> 
> Eggo® waffles with peanut butter and maple syrup are the food of the gods. No, I am not accepting constructive criticism at this time.
> 
> Philippians 4:13 is the one that says "I can do all things through Christ which strengthens me."
> 
> Eddie is fine, by the way. It was just weird seeing his boss making out with the janitor on the break room couch, a bit like when you were in school and you'd run into one of your teachers in public and be forced to confront the fact that they have lives of their own.
> 
> Sir John becoming self-aware? In my poorly-written Terror AU? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> "Knock, knock."  
> "Who's there?"  
> "Interrupting Jopson."  
> "Interrupting Jopson wh-"  
> "Sorry, sir, is now a bad time?"


	4. S'Mores, the Administrative Building Break Room Vending Machine, John Irving's Necklace, and The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Irving is beginning to come to terms with things. Meanwhile, the Terrors do a heist, James and Francis have a moment, John Bridgens makes a decision, and Billy Gibson absolutely does not have a crush on Cornelius Hickey.

_There’s nothing like a good s'more to take your mind off things_ , John Irving thought.

It was almost 11:00 PM. Lights-out for the campers had been nearly an hour ago, and the counselors were gathered around the campfire they’d started earlier, which was still going strong.

Almost all the counselors, anyway - Tom Hartnell, his elusive almost-roommate, was nowhere to be found. Also, the interns were there: Eddie listening intently to one of Dundy's long-winded stories (which, if Irving's prediction was correct, would soon end in a terrible punchline), and Thomas accidentally setting a marshmallow on fire and holding it up so Ned could blow out the flame.

"And so he pulls the steering wheel hard to the right, and he says to the snake in his passenger's seat, ' _Better Nate than lever!_ ' and then he runs the other snake over."

Irving was right. The crowd around Dundy booed and began to dissipate. One of them, a lanky, blond guy with a wiry beard wearing a tie-dyed bucket hat, a stained waistcoat, and a tee-shirt that read _WOMAN KING_ , walked over and sat down next to Irving. _How is this man attractive?_ Irving asked himself. _Not that I’m attracted to men, or anything. He’s just-_ “How goes it?"

"It, uh, goes,” Irving responded, thankful that that particular train of thought had been, for the moment, derailed. The man went in for a fist bump, which Irving awkwardly returned. He was charming, in an odd way, and Irving was beginning to realize that the s’mores were not, in fact, taking his mind off things. “Saw you sitting all alone, thought you could use a friend.” He patted Irving on the back, letting his hand linger a little too long. “Name's George Hodgson," the man said. "Song leader. Cabin 7. You?"

"Uh. John Irving," he answered, taking a moment to decide whether or not to include the _Reverend_ bit. “Irving,” George repeated. “A Scottish name. I like that. D’you know that Scotland’s national animal is a unicorn?”

“I can’t say I did,” Irving said, sweating. “So,” George continued, apparently oblivious to Irving’s internal turmoil, “what do you do around here?”

"Climbing instructor,” Irving choked out.

“Oh, climbing? Now _that’s_ interesting. You know, the name Irving is derived from the name Irvine, which is funny because Sandy Irvine died with George Mallory on Everest. And, you know, you’re into climbing. Well, it’s not really _funny_ , but…”

“No, it’s- it’s cool, that you know all this stuff. I, uh, like that.” Oh, God. Was he really going to-? _Get ahold of yourself, John._ He took a deep, deliberate breath. _One time, to get it out of your system. Then you can put this to bed. Wait. Not like that. I mean-_

George interrupted the voice in his head. “I like that you like that. What, uh,” he paused to look over at the crowd around Dundy, as if to make sure they weren’t paying attention to the two men, off to the side, now sitting just a little too close together. “What cabin are you in?”

“Cabin 14. Not that I have any campers. Or even a roommate. It's, uh, just me,” he stumbled, trying to finish his sentence before he had the chance to chicken out, “if you want to go and, uh, _hang out_ or whatever.”

George put a hand on Irving’s knee, and Irving’s heart was in his throat. “I’d like that, yeah. Lead the way?”

-

"I'm sorry. I just- I can't do this."

George let go of John immediately, shrugging his waistcoat back on. "Whoa, sorry, dude. Didn't mean to overstep. Are you okay?"

John had been the one to invite George back to his cabin, and he had been the one to initiate the… er, _physical_ portion of their encounter, but he had pulled back, visibly upset, and it worried George. He didn't want to do anything that would make John uncomfortable, and he certainly didn't want to be the kind of guy who takes advantage of vulnerable people.

"I'm fine, I just… it's a lot, and I don't want to bother you with it. Hell, we just met."

"No, actually, it's totally cool if you need to talk. But, like, you don't have share if you don't want to. We can just pretend this never happened, if you want."

"No," John hesitated for a moment. "You seem nice. I just- don't know what I want. Maybe… would it be alright, actually? If I talked to you about it? You won't… judge, or anything?"

"Not at all, my guy. I'm all ears. What's up?"

John sighed and sat down on one of the beds, resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands. George sat down next to him on the bed, but at a respectful distance. After a bit, John spoke. "Have you ever just… dug yourself into a hole? And the whole time you're digging, it seems like everything and everyone's trying to give you an excuse to stop digging, but you don't? And then finally, there you are, at the bottom of the hole, and you realize you dug it too deep to climb out and no one's gonna be able to hear you calling for help?"

George was beginning to think this wasn't actually about digging. John sighed again. "I think I'm gay."

George had thought this was a given, but then, it wasn't his journey. Hadn't we all been there at some point? "Dude, there's nothing wrong with that. It's just who you are."

"I know, I know, it's just… I think I'm gay, and I accidentally staked my entire career on being straight."

George's brow furrowed. "How do you mean?"

John sat up, rubbing his eyes. "There was this guy I went to youth group with when I was younger. Malcolm. He- uh- I _liked_ him, okay? I liked him. A lot. And I didn't just want to be friends with him. We had this lock-in at the church one night, and we were playing this hide-and-seek thing, and we were hiding together, in the dark, and he, uh, kissed me. And I never spoke to him again. And I found the box in my head that was gay, and I crushed it, and I went to seminary school and got ordained."

"Ah."

"And I was fine, right? I was fine up until last year, when I went to this conference, and there was this- uh, this night. That I couldn't remember. But when I woke up, this was on my bedside table," he continued, holding up the charm on the necklace he was wearing, which George could now tell was a man's class ring. "And I kept telling myself that it was there the whole time and I just forgot about it, until today, when the guy who's supposed to be my roommate but is avoiding me for some reason noticed it and freaked out and ran off, and at first I thought it was weird…"

"But?"

"But he has the same name. And initials. That are on the ring. And he looks really familiar."

"I see."

"And I don't know what to do. And I'm sorry for- for dragging you into this. Like I said, you seemed nice, and I just… this sounds stupid, but I thought that maybe if I could prove to myself that I didn't enjoy… being with you, then I could forget the whole thing. And then we didn't get that far."

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Enjoy it. As far as we got."

"…I did, yeah, but I couldn't stop thinking about him."

"I think you need to talk to this guy," George said. "Maybe he feels the same way, maybe he doesn't. Either way, you're never gonna have peace unless you get this off your chest."

"But- what about my career?"

"Why did you want to become a pastor, John?"

"To help people, obviously," he said, almost defensively.

"There are other ways to help people, though," George continued. "Maybe God has other plans for you."

"But I was _so sure-_ "

"He works in mysterious ways, though, doesn't He? Maybe He's been trying to give you a sign."

John sat for a moment, pensive, before finally looking up at George. "Thanks, man. I think I needed to hear that."

"No prob, Bob. Or should I say _no problem, Boblem?_ "

"Say whatever you want. Sorry I, uh, misled you."

"Seriously, it's no big deal. Just glad I could help. I should go now, though. Henry - my roommate - is probably looking for me. No hard feelings or anything. If you ever need to talk again, you know where to find me."

George got up, and on his way out the door, he heard John call out, "Hey, thanks again. I mean it."

He shouted back, "No problem, Boblem!"

-

“We have- have lingered in the chambers of the sea, by sea-girls wreathed with- with seaweed red and brown, till human voices wake us and we drown.”

“Hey, there you go!” John Bridgens smiled and, with the arm he’d draped around Henry Peglar’s shoulders, squeezed him closer in a congratulatory hug. It had been a good evening - Francis (as he’d insisted John call him) was in charge of the camp now, and when they’d gone to him to come clean about their relationship, what was it he’d said? _I’ll be damned if I fire someone for belonging to a community of which I myself am a part_. That had inspired a new hope in both him and Henry, not only that they were not in danger of mistreatment here, but that they were _not alone_.

It was this inspiration that led them to the break room, and to John’s battered copy of _Prufrock and Other Observations_. Henry was getting better at reading poetry all the time, but _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ had always tripped him up - it was a fairly long poem, and the modernists and their fluidity of language did not mesh well with his severe dyslexia. Still, it was one of John’s favorites, and he had been determined to conquer it. So, emboldened by their newfound security, Henry had asked John if they could try it again.

And how could John say no to him? They sat on the couch in their usual positions - John, leaned against the arm of the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, holding the book, and Henry leaned over on him to such a degree that he was practically in the man’s lap, tracing the words with a finger as he read them. John always loved to listen to Henry read. Even though he stumbled over the words, his voice was always so sincere, always so revealing of his fascination with the text, with literature, with _John_ -

“Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred in- indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and… revisions,

Before the- the taking of a toast and tea.”

God, how had he ever been unsure about this man? It was hard to believe that as recently as this morning, he’d had doubts that their partnership could ever be permanent. Some floodgate had opened in his heart since then, and he was drowning in the realization that he couldn’t live without Henry.

“Do I- do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For de- decisions and… revisions which a minute will- will reverse.”

And it was in that minute that John made his decision.

He was going to do it. He was going to disturb the universe.

And so, even as Henry, proud of his accomplishment, leaned in and kissed him (though he could barely stop grinning), even as they got up from the couch, turned off the break room light, and walked, arm-in-arm for the first time, back to their cabin, even as they lay down in one of the twin beds that awaited them there, Henry sprawled across his chest, their fingers interlocked as Henry drifted off to sleep, John was lost in thought, mapping out how he would go about proposing marriage.

-

The Holy Terrors had been lurking out behind the administrative building for nearly twenty minutes before the lights in the window went off. The window itself was too high off the ground to see through (though Magnus had offered to boost Tommy onto his shoulders to peer in, they decided this was too likely to draw attention to them), but the light in the room beyond it was on and they heard indistinct, muffled voices through the wall. Hickey figured that they’d be able to tell when its occupants left by watching for the light to turn off, so they waited.

It hadn’t been easy hiding for that long. The Terrors simply were not made for stealth. Magnus and Tommy kept getting gradually louder and having to be shushed, and Charlie, who had never taken a martial arts class in his life, kept practicing Tae Kwon Do kicks, losing his balance, and falling over. Hell, Hickey himself couldn’t really keep quiet, what with all the shushing he was doing. Billy was the only one who was actually being quiet, sitting huddled against the wall, a slightly nauseated look on his face. Hickey had told him that if he didn’t want to help with this part, he didn’t have to, but he had come anyway, despite his apparent nervousness.

When the light went off, it was time to put their plan into action. Each Terror had a different role to play in the heist, as assigned by Hickey. Billy and Charlie would stand watch at each corner of the building’s back wall to make sure no counselors had caught wind of their plan. As the largest and strongest of the Terrors, Magnus would boost Hickey and Tommy up through the window. Tommy carried their tools: a spatula and a bottle of canola oil pilfered from the mess hall kitchen, a glass cutter found in a toolbox in the ATV shed, and a plunger and a tube of caulk from a janitor’s closet, all stuffed into Billy’s duffel bag. Hickey would be the one actually carrying out the heist. He climbed up onto Magnus’s shoulders, wedged the spatula between the window and its frame, and prised it open. The window was narrow, but Hickey and Tommy were pretty thin, so they were able to easily hoist themselves up onto the windowsill and clamber through, falling onto a couch on the other side.

Then, Tommy kept an eye on the door while Hickey stuck the plunger to the clear front panel of the vending machine, oiled up the glass cutter, and got to work. “Done this before, have you?” He asked Hickey, somewhat amazed at the level of skill the boy seemed to have.

“Couple times, yeah,” Hickey grinned. “Mind to hold onto this for me?”

Tommy grabbed the handle of the plunger, and Hickey cut the last portion of the glass. He’d cut around the frame, so that the panel could be caulked back into place without giving away that it had ever been cut out. Hickey was thankful that it was an old machine to begin with, and wasn’t in the best shape. Hopefully, no one would notice an extra scratch or dent. He finished cutting the glass, and Tommy used the plunger to pull the panel away from the machine. He went to lean it up against a wall, but was startled into nearly dropping it when Charlie tumbled through the window.

“What. The fuck. Are you doing.” Hickey hissed. This was not part of the plan. “Wanted to look around. Oh, shit, they got Faygo,” Charlie said, pulling out his wallet, which was chained to his baggy pants. “Get back out there!” Hickey whispered as loudly and angrily as possible, hoping Charlie would get the message, but he was already feeding quarters into the drink machine.

The machine spat out two cans of Faygo with a loud clunking sound. Hickey could feel his blood pressure rising. “Take. Your drinks. And go,” he choked out.

“Whatever, bro,” Charlie said, pocketing the cans and climbing up onto the back of the couch and out the window.

“Thank god,” Hickey said, rolling his eyes. “You got the bag?”

“Right here,” Tommy said, holding it out. With the glass out of the way, Hickey reached into the machine and began retrieving the valuable snacks within. He would have to be careful with what he took and how much - he couldn’t take everything, or they’d know they’d been robbed, and he couldn’t take all but one of everything for the same reason. There was an upside to this, though: he could take more of the more desirable items, and make it look like they had simply run out. He carefully made his choices, taking most of the Snickers bars, cookies, Little Debbie cakes, and miniature bags of Cheetos, and leaving things like granola bars and microwave popcorn. Once he’d finished with that, he adjusted the leftover items to cover his tracks, then, with Tommy using the plunger to hold the glass in the right position, caulked the panel back into place.

He was just finishing up the caulking when he heard Magnus call from outside the window. “Cornelius?”

“For fuck’s sake. I’ll caulk you next,” he said under his breath, then called back, “What is it, Magnus?”

“I don’t think Billy’s feeling well.”

-

Billy wasn’t feeling well.

That much he knew, based on how his stomach felt when he woke up. He sat up in bed and inspected his vaguely-unfamiliar surroundings. It was a cabin, but not his assigned cabin, as evidenced by the lack of Charlie’s personal effects strewn about, and the absence of Magnus and Tommy’s too-loud whispering.

And Cornelius wasn’t there.

The boy with the shoulder-length, strawberry-blond hair and blue eyes at which Billy spent a _perfectly normal_ amount of time staring had insisted the Terrors - as he’d taken to calling them - call him Hickey, his surname. The thing is, though, Billy had always rather liked the name _Cornelius_. For that reason alone, in his own head, at least, he would stick to calling the boy Cornelius. It certainly didn’t have anything to do with the slightly suggestive sound of _Hickey_.

It didn’t really matter in that moment. Billy could think about the crush he definitely _wasn’t_ developing on Cornelius later. First, he needed to figure out where he was. _Let me think_ , he let himself think, _how to go about this…_

He settled on a strategy, and put his plan into action.

“Where am I?”

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” said a voice he recognized as the doctor’s. “How are you feeling?”

“My stomach’s a bit-“

“Yes, that’s to be expected. We have a bit of a stomach bug going around, and it seems you’ve caught it. We’ve moved you into quarantine, just until you start feeling better.”

“Quarantine? But- will I get to see-“

“Oh, don’t worry…” the doctor trailed off, checking the clipboard that had been hastily hung on one of the bedposts with twine, “…Billy. You’ll only be sick for a couple of days, and you’ve got David here to keep you company.” The doctor gestured to the bed across from Billy’s, where a slight, redheaded boy was snoring. “I have to go now, but I’ll come back to check on you later. Here, take this,” he said, handing Billy a piece of technology that he was reasonably sure had been assembled sometime before he was born, “It’s a pager. You just press this button if you need me, and I’ll come to you. Try to get some rest, now.”

The doctor hobbled out on his crutches, and with David fast asleep, Billy was as good as alone. Or, at least, he thought he was, until he heard a familiar series of sounds from outside, and before he could blink, the window on the rear wall of the cabin was open and Charlie Des Voeux tumbled in, followed by the rest of the Terrors.

“What are you guys doing here?” Billy asked. Cornelius approached his bedside and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Are you not well, Billy?”

“Doctor says I have a stomach virus,” Billy responded, trying (and failing) to ignore the touch, “you probably shouldn’t get too close.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause if you had it, all of us would have it, too,” Cornelius said, gesturing to Tommy, Magnus, and Charlie, who were donning an unused bedpan as a hat, trying very hard not to laugh out loud at the bedpan thing, and folding David’s chart into a paper ninja star, respectively. “But look at them. They’re healthy as ever, right, lads?”

“I'm not. My eye hurts,” said Magnus, who had just been hit in the face with a paper ninja star.

Cornelius turned back to Billy. “Except for Magnus, whose eye hurts for an unrelated reason.”

“The reason is my badass ninja skills,” said Charlie, before attempting to spin the ninja star in his hand and giving himself a papercut.

“ _Point is_ , Billy, I don’t think it’s a bug, I think it’s the food. Think about it. You’re the only one of us who actually ate whatever that was they served for dinner last night, and now you’re the only one of us who’s sick. Don’t worry, though,” he paused to rifle through Billy’s duffel bag, which was considerably fuller than it had been before. “I brought you these. For when you feel like eating again.” He held out a snack-sized pack of Oreo cookies. “Thanks,” Billy said, taking the Oreos and hoping that his expression was more a smile than a grimace. Magnus, checking his watch, interrupted them. “We have to go, Cornelius. The counselors’ll be looking for us.” Hickey gave him a thumbs-up. “We’ll be back tomorrow. Get well soon, yeah?”

Then, with as much grace and coordination as the four of them could muster, they slipped back out the window and into the night.

-

What had Francis _meant?_

Obviously he had meant what he said, but that wasn’t making it any easier for James to get to sleep. If he was… what he said he was, did that mean that James had a chance?

Since when did James _want_ to have a chance?

They’d only known each other for a few days, and in that time they’d gone from outright hating each other to some semblance of friendship. That _was_ what this was, right? What did Francis want?

_What had Francis meant?_

It was no use, James was not going to fall asleep anytime soon. _Might as well go grab my book,_ he thought, _get some reading done. Take my mind off this._ He grabbed his phone off the bedside table and turned on the flashlight, which glinted off something on the floor. It was Francis’s sobriety token. James picked it up and held it in his palm, trying to ignore the odd feeling in his chest.

To his surprise, when he stepped out of his room, there was already a light emanating from the main room of the oversized cabin. Francis was sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop, typing. James startled, hoping that he hadn’t made enough noise to be noticed, but Francis looked up anyway. “Couldn’t sleep, either?”

“Arm hurts.” It wasn’t a lie - the low-level painkiller they’d given him at the emergency room had all but worn off completely, and as part of some kind of initiative to cut down on excess opioid prescriptions in the area, they’d only given him extra-strength ibuprofen for the long term. That wasn’t why he couldn’t sleep, but it certainly wasn’t helping.

“Here, I’ll get your sling,” Francis said, getting up. “Can’t have you messing up your stitches.” He brought the sling, which had been left hanging on the coatrack next to the door, over to James and began to help him into it. As Francis finished pulling it into place, his hand briefly brushed against James’s breast. He flinched, which caused a bright flash of pain in his arm, and dropped the sobriety token. Francis abruptly pulled his hands back. “Sorry! I’m sorry- I didn’t mean-“

“It’s alright,” James said, trying to regain his composure. “S’not your fault. Just startled me, that’s all.”

“Here, you dropped…” Francis trailed off, bending down to pick up the token and realizing what it was.

“You left it with me earlier,” James explained, blushing. “I was going to give it back to you.”

“Thank you,” Francis said, voice almost at a whisper. The two of them stood there for a moment that seemed to drag on, looking at each other. Francis reached out to lay a hand on James’s good shoulder, and just as it touched down, there was a knock at the door.

-

“Thank you for letting me know, Dr. Goodsir. Now, go get some rest. Get off your leg for a bit.”

“No problem, sir. Sleep well,” Harry said as Francis closed the door. He limped back to his own cabin, quite pleased with himself that he’d finally gotten the hang of navigating the gravel path through camp on his crutches. He stepped inside, where his temporary roommate, Tom Hartnell, sat on his bed in an almost meditative pose, an AirPod in each ear. He didn’t appear to have noticed Harry. Perhaps Harry could just _sneak_ by without bothering him…

He couldn’t. Crutches, as helpful as they are in many situations, are decidedly not good for sneaking. He clacked forward and Tom’s eyes shot open. He took out his headphones and practically tumbled out of the bed, toward Harry. “Sorry! Sorry. Let me help you.”

“It’s okay, I think I can make it. I didn’t mean to bother you. You seemed… concentrated.”

“Oh, yeah. I was just doing this thing my therapist showed me. It helps with my anxiety. I put on calming music and count backwards from 1,000. It sounds a little pointless, but it works, so…”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve found something that helps,” Harry said, sitting down on his own bed. Perhaps he could get to know the kid a little better. He’d seemed kind of reticent when he’d offered to bunk with Harry until his ankle healed, and while he had been very helpful, Harry was starting to wonder if he was okay. He decided to further the conversation. “What kind of music were you listening to, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Tom blushed. “You’ll laugh.”

“Of course not!”

The boy sighed. “ _Silly Songs With Larry._ ”

“From that cartoon with the talking vegetables?”

“Yeah. It’s nostalgia, I guess. It’s something my brother and I used to watch when we were kids, before he got sick, and it just… makes me feel happy, you know? It kind of feels like part of him’s still with me.”

“I understand completely. You know, I’m no psychologist, but if you ever need to talk about anything, I’d be happy to listen.”

Harry smiled warmly at Tom, and Tom’s expression grew thoughtful. “Actually, there _is_ something I need to talk to someone about, if you’re alright with that.”

“Absolutely! Go ahead,” Harry said, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position. “I’m listening.”

“Well, the story starts at this conference I went to last year…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long! Grad school will do that. I am going to continue updating this fic. I'm anticipating two more chapters, though that may change. I've also had an idea for a spin-off story set at the Expedition Youth Camp, so stay tuned for that.
> 
> Spot the References, Chapter 4 Edition: The Book of Mormon (the musical, not the religious text).
> 
> Dundy is telling [The Longest Joke in the World](http://longestjokeintheworld.com).
> 
> Hodgson is wearing an Iron & Wine shirt because I like Iron & Wine and also as a nod to a guy I was in youth group with as a teenager. Max, if you're reading this... you've changed quite a bit, haven't you? Also, his fun facts about the Irving family name, Scotland's national animal, and the 1924 Everest Expedition are all true. Irving has truly met his match when it comes to awkwardly seducing people with trivia.
> 
> Not only does George Hodgson fuck, he respects consent. And he's a good listener. The more you know.
> 
> Insert obligatory "T. S. Eliot was an asshole" here. I can't stand the man, but his poetry makes me feel things, okay?
> 
> I have never broken into a vending machine, so I cannot vouch for the real-world results of Hickey's strategy. I just wanted to have him caulk something. That is all.


End file.
